U  N  u  b    (J 1 
HE  STALWART 


i RANT LAND  RICE 


SONGS  OF  THE  STALWART 


SONGS  OF  THE  STALWART 

BY 
GRANTLAND  RICE 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 

1917 


Copyright,   1917,  by 
D.   APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Printed   in   the  United   States  of  America 


1225  $7 


TO  MY  WIFE 


37163G 


INTRODUCTION 

Grantland  Rice  is  a  sweet  and  kindly  human 
being  who  has  a  habit  of  saying  things  in  a  sweet 
and  kindly  way.  Sometimes  he  says  them  in 
verse,  which  is  still  better. 

You  like  Grantland  Rice's  prose  stuff  until 
you  have  read  some  of  his  verses.  Then  you 
wonder  why  he  doesn't  write  in  rhyme  all  the 
time.  Then  some  day  you  read  one  of  his  base 
ball  stories,  and  you  decide  that  there  is  a  good 
deal  to  be  said  on  both  sides  of  this  proposition. 

Grant  Rice  is  almost  the  only  man  I  know 
who  has  made  literature  of  the  sporting  depart 
ment  of  a  daily  paper — not  merely  smart  jour 
nalism,  but  actually  literature — matter  that  has 
good  diction,  swift,  sharp,  crackling  metaphor, 
deft  phrasing,  smooth,  clarified  English.  And 
his  jingles  very  frequently  are  more  than  just 
rhymes.  They  are  rhythm. 

He  was  born  shortly  after  the  Reconstruction 


V111  INTRODUCTION 

Period  went  out  of  fashion  in  the  blue  grass 
country  of  Tennessee — oh,  yes,  Tennessee  has 
a  blue-grass  belt,  too — and  he  came  to  New 
York  by  way  of  Atlanta,  Georgia,  where  he 
wrote  sport  stuff  which  was  reprinted  all  over 
the  country,  sometimes  with  due  credit  to  the 
author  and  sometimes  without  it,  which  was  an 
even  greater  compliment  to  the  young  man.  I 
have  heard  that  when  a  New  York  paper  offered 
him  a  job  and  he  accepted  it,  he  was  scared 
stiff  for  fear  he  wouldn't  be  able  to  deliver.  He 
need  not  have  been.  He  made  good  twenty 
minutes  after  he  landed  in  the  Big  Town.  Per 
haps  I  am  exaggerating  there.  It  may  have 
been  as  long  as  half  an  hour. 

That  was  seven  or  eight,  or  maybe  nine,  years 
ago.  Today  he  is  the  most  extensively  syndi 
cated  and  by  the  same  token  the  most  exten 
sively  read  writer  on  sporting  topics  in  the  United 
States,  and  is  paid  accordingly.  Success  has  not 
damaged  him.  His  hat  size  is  still  seven  and 
an  eighth  and  his  favorite  flower  remains  the 
violet.  He  is  the  same  modest,  manly,  sunny- 
natured  chap  that  he  must  have  been  when  he 


INTRODUCTION  « 

was  a  tow-headed  kid  Down  South,  or  when  he 
was  a  freshman  in  college  at  Nashville,  or  when 
he  broke  into  the  game  as  a  cub  reporter.  Every 
time  Grant  Rice  meets  a  man,  Grant  Rice's  cir 
cle  of  friends  and  well-wishers  has  been  increased 
by  one.  So  far  as  I  know  he  has  one  serious 
vice :  he  would  rather  play  golf  in  the  fall  of  the 
year  than  go  bird-shooting  with  me.  The  man 
telpiece  and  other  furniture  in  his  flat  are  all 
junked  up  with  those  silver  contraptions  called 
trophies  which  he  has  won  on  the  links.  Any 
time  Mrs.  Rice  feels  that  the  whatnot  in  the 
corner  requires  further  ornamentation,  Grant 
takes  his  clubs  in  his  hand  and  goes  over  to 
Englewood  or  down  to  Pinehurst,  or  somewhere, 
and  presently  comes  home  with  another  loving 
cup  bearing  the  imprint  of  the  popular  Mr. 
Sterling. 

Some  of  these  days  they  are  going  to  nomi 
nate  a  successor  to  the  late  James  Whitcomb 
Riley  as  our  most  typical  writer  of  homely,  gen 
tle  American  verse.  I  have  my  candidate 
already  picked  out.  His  name  is  Grantland  Rice. 

IRVIN  S.  COBB. 


CONTENTS 
SONGS  OF  SOMEWHERE  BACK 

PAGE 

Some  Day 3 

Down  in  Sunny  Tennessee 4 

A  Little  Boy — and  His  Dream 10 

Voices  of  the  Night 12 

The  Triumvirate. 13 

In  Life's  April 15 

Uncle  Remus 17 

The  Vanished  Country 19 

Ghosts  of  the  Alamo 21 

At  the  Morning  Gate 23 

Through  the  Smoke  Wreath 25 

Somewhere  Back 27 

The  Little  Land  of  Morning 29 

Above  the  Darkness 31 

The  Lost  Goddess 32 

Wind  of  the  Night .' 34 

When  Summer  Days  Were  Long 36 

x  The  League  of  Once-Upon-a-Time 38 

When  Christmas  Calls 39 


xii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Sort  of  a  Girl  We  Used  to  Know 40 

A  Song  That's  Out  of  Date 42 

Poor  Little  Devil 43 

The  Story  of  the  Rose 45 

Over  the  Ways 47 

In  Far-off  Lands 49 

Lost  Lanes 51 

The  Alien 53 

When  Spring  Comes  Back 54 

Septembers  Ago 57 

From  the  Long  Road 58 

SONGS  OF  COURAGE 

From  the  Highway 63 

The  Call  of  the  Unbeaten 64 

Brave  Life 65 

Ballade  of  the  Gamefish 68 

The  Trainers 70 

On  Being  Ready 72 

The  Gift  of  the  Gods 73 

On  to  the  End 74 

The  Last  of  All 76 

On  Down  the  Road 77 

The  Hour  Hand 78 

The  Braver  Way 80 

Whatever  Odds  There  Are 82 

As  for  Service  Rendered 82 

The  Top  o'  the  World 83 


CONTENTS  xui 

PAGE 

Ballad  of  the  Brave 85 

The  Answer 86 

When  Thumbs  are  Down 88 

The  Way  of  the  Winning  Tribe 89 

The  Year  Beyond 91 

SONGS  OF  THE  OFF-TRAIL 

Somewhere  Out 95 

Christmas  on  the  Off -Trail 97 

With  the  Tramping  Winds 100 

A  Voice  from  the  Dusk 102 

The  Last  Inn 103 

When  April  Calls 104 

Along  a  Friendly  Road 105 

The  Vagabond  Speaks 106 

Thanksgiving  From  the  Road 107 

"Might  Have  Been" 109 

With  Rag  and  Pack no 

O,  You  Romany! 112 

Spring  on  the  Off-Trail 114 

SONGS  OF  THE  GAME 

Two  Out— and  the  Bases  Full— 117 

Weak  Willed 118 

From  the  Game 119 

At  Sport's  Frontier 120 

The  Universal  Boast. ...  .  122 


xiv  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Call  of  the  Age 123 

To  John  Henry  Wagner 125 

Ballade  of  Bruisers 131 

The  Bush  to  the  Big  League 132 

The  Land  of  Par 135 

There— Up— and  Back * 136 

The  Cause  Eternal 141 

"Even  This  Shall  Pass  Away" 143 

The  Record 145 

Scotia's  Rebuttal 146 

Pumpelly — of  Yale 149 

An  Old  Refrain . .' 1 50 

Ballade  of  Heroes 152 

Rube  Marquard's  Soliloquy 1 54 

The  Race 155 

Somewhere  in  the  Game 1 56 

Lines  to  Stuffy  Mclnnis 157 

The  Game  and  the  Piper 159 

As  It  Sometimes  Happens 161 

SONGS  ABOVE  THE  DRUMFIRE 

Beyond  the  Charge 165 

What  Of  It? 166 

Alan  Seeger 169 

Over  There \  171 

Golf  in  Europe 173 

"Somewhere — in  Somewhere" 175 

Songs  the  Soldiers  Sing 1 76 


CONTENTS  xv 

PAGE 

Our  Uncle  Samuel 178 

France 1 79 

Peace  for  the  Kaiser 182 

Three  Years  Ago 184 

A  Message  from  a  Front  Trench 185 

The  Princess  Pats 187 

Into  the  Battle 188 

In  No  Man's  Land 190 

The  Fallen 191 

The  Canadian 192 

On  Thanksgiving  Day 193 

Beyond  the  Barrier 194 

The  Story  of  the  Drums 195 

Over  the  Border 19? 

Two  Songs  of  the  Field 199 

"Home  from  the  Front" 201 


SONGS  OF  SOMEWHERE  BACK 


SOME   DAY 

I'm  going  home  some  day — 

If  I  can  only  find  the  pathway  back ; 
For  I  have  come  too  far,  too  far  astray, 

A  wanderer  on  a  strange  and  alien  track. 
I  saw  the  world  ahead  and  only  meant 

To  go  a  little  way  beyond — and  then 
To  seek  the  old-time  highway  of  content, 

And  live  back  home  among  my  clan  again. 

I'm  going  home  some  day — 

But  every  track  I  face  is  strange  and  new ; 
God  grant  I  have  not  wholly  lost  the  way 

But  that,  in  seeking  all  the  long  years  through, 
The  mist  shall  lift,  and  I  shall  find  once  more 

The   path   that    leads   me   to    the   dreams   of 
youth — 


4  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

The  lanes  of  light — the  life  I  knew  before 
I  left  the  old-time  ways  of  faith  and  truth. 

I'm  going  home  some  day- — 

So  moves  the  dream  of  all  the  roving  world; 
The  seekers  of  far  lands  who've  lost  their  way, 

God's  countless  aliens  by  the  current  whirled 
From  out  the  harbor,  and  by  tempest  tossed 

To  unknown  lands  where  they  must  ever  roam  ; 
And  this  is  all  that  makes  life  worth  the  cost — 

This  endless  dream — "Some  day  I'm  going 
home." 

DOWN    IN    SUNNY   TENNESSEE 

Is  the  sunshine  any  brighter 
From  the  years  that  used  to  be? 

Is  the  moondrift  any  softer 
Down  in  Sunny  Tennessee  ? 

Are  the  song  birds  any  sweeter, 
As  they  warble  to  their  mates  ? 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Are  the  mountains  any  higher 

Than  they  are  in  other  states  ? 
For  you  understand  the  feeling, 

If  you've  ever  had  to  roam, 
The  sky  is  always  bluer, 
And  the  old-time  friends  seem  truer, 

When  a  fellow  thinks  of  home. 

When  the  way  I  take  is  weary 

Through  the  shadow  of  the  years, 
When  the  day  has  seen  my  sorrow 

And  the  dark  has  known  my  fears, 
Then  I  turn  to  you  and  whisper : 

"O,  the  night  has  grown  so  deep — 
Where  I  thought  Fame's  light  was  flaring, 

Only  ghosts  and  shadows  creep; 
Can't  you  see  I'm  lonesome  for  you 

Where  the  way  of  Fate  is  stark  ? 
Won't  you  call  me  home,  O  Mother, 

Call  your  boy  in  from  the  dark?" 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

I  can  see  old  lanes  that  wander 
Where  the  maples  bend  and  sway ; 

I  can  see  your  orchards  waiting 
Where  the  children  used  to  play ; 

And  they're  full  of  dreams  that  beckon 
To  a  long  forgotten  day ; 

And  when  the  day  is  over 

In  the  summer's  purple  glow, 

Your  fields  are  faint  with  starlight 
From  the  dusks  of  long  ago, 
That  a  fellow  used  to  know. 

I  can  see  you  now  before  me, 

From  your  mountains  to  your  plains  ; 
Through  the  glory  of  your  sundrifts 

And  the  gray  mists  of  your  rains ; 
Where  your  moonlight's  spilling  silver 

And  your  sunshine's  dripping  gold, 
And  your  twilight  winds  are  singing 

Of  the  fine,  brave  days  of  old. 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Of  the  days  when  Jackson's  courage 

Gave  the  nation  back  its  faith — 
When  the  Alamo  called  Crockett 

For  his  rifle  and  his  wraith — 
When  Forrest  led  his  stalwarts 

Out  the  highway  of  the  brave, 
And  Morgan's  mighty  raiders 

Rode  to  glory — or  the  grave. 

Then  the  vision  changes  color, 

Where  the  softer  dreams  remain 
Of  lips  as  red  as  roses 

That  are  rinsed  in  April's  rain; 
Of  eyes  as  blue  as  May  deeps 

Where  the  violets  are  born, 
And  voices  that  are  softer 

Than  the  summer  winds  at  dawn, 
Then  the  summer  winds  that  whisper 

From  the  Long  and  Long  Ago. 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

When  a  fellow  starts  to  dreaming 
Of  a  Girl  he  used  to  know. 

Where  shadows  drift  and  gather 

There's  a  mist  before  my  eyes, 
From  fields  of  waving  blue-grass 

And  from  still  remembered  skies; 
WThere  vanished  winds  come  singing, 

Through  the  fragrance  of  your  loam, 
The  story  of  your  glory 

And  the  old,  old  song  of  home. 

The  old,  old  song  that  echoes 

On  the  far  winds  of  the  night — 
That  sings  above  the  war  drums 

And  the  tumult  of  the  fight; 
That  sweeps  across  the  cities 

Where  the  flags  of  triumph  fly, 
And  whispers  in  the  twilight 

Where  the  wounded  wait  to  die; 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

The  song  of  all  the  millions 

Who  have  held  one  dream  at  bay 

Of  a  road  beyond  Tomorrow 

That  will  lead  back  home  some  day. 

And  when  the  road  came  calling 

To  take  my  "rag  and  pack," 
To  face  the  way,  far  leading, 

That  might  not  bring  me  back, 
I  still  held  to  the  vision 

Of  dim,  old-fashioned  lanes, 
Through  April's  silver  mornings, 

And  through  gray  October  rains; 
And  grander  than  all  triumphs 

That  ever  come  to  men — 
A  clan  that  waits  with  welcome — 

When  I  come  home  again. 


A  LITTLE  BOY— AND  A  DREAM 

The  Little  Boy  smiled  in  his  sleep  that  night 
As  he  wandered  to  Twilight  Town ; 
And  his  face  lit  up  with  a  heavenly  light 
Through  the  shadows  that  drifted  down ; 
But  he  woke  next  morning  with  tear-stained  eye 
In  the  light  of  the  gray  dawn's  gleam ; 
And  out  from  the  stillness  we  heard  him  cry: 
"I've  lost  my  dream — my  dream  !" 

And  he  told  us  then,  in  his  childish  way, 

Of  the  wonderful  dream  he'd  known; 

He  had  wandered  away  from  the  land  of  play 

To  the  distant  Land  of  the  Grown ; 

He  had  won  his  share  of  the  fame  and  fight, 

In  the  struggle  and  toil  of  men ; 

And  he  sobbed  and  sighed  in  the  breaking  light : 

"I  want  my  dream  again." 
10 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  II 

As  the  years  passed  by  the  Little  Boy  grew 
Till  he  came  to  the  Land  of  the  Grown ; 
And  the  dream  of  his  early  youth  came  true, 
The  dream  that  he  thought  had  flown ; 
Yet  once  again  he  smiled  in  his  sleep, 
Smiled  on  to  the  gray  dawn's  gleam, 
When  those  near  by  might  have  heard  him  weep, 
"I  want  my  dream — my  dream !" 

For  he  dreamed  of  the  Yesterdays  of  Youth, 
And  the  smile  on  a  mother's  face ; 
A  hearth  of  old-time  faith  and  truth 
In  the  light  of  an  old  home  place ; 
He  had  won  his  share  of  the  fame  and  fight 
In  the  struggle  and  toil  of  men — 
Yet  he  sobbed  and  sighed  in  the  breaking  light: 
"I  want  my  dream  again." 


VOICES    OF   THE    NIGHT 

Last  night  you  called  from  some  forgotten  year ; 
You  spoke  to  me  across  the  wall  of  night ; 
Or  was  it  but  the  wind  that  echoed  near 
And  whispered  to  me  as  it  wheeled  in  flight? 
Wind  of  the  night  from  pathways  we  had  known 
Before  the  journey  called  me  forth  alone? 
I  know  not — only  that  last  night,  as  then, 
I  heard  your  voice  again. 

Last  night  you  sang  to  me — the  old  song  crept 

From  out  the  years  and  life's  forgotten  ways ; 

Or  was  it  that  the  tavern  music  swept 

My  heart  and  soul  on  back  to  other  days? 

That  carried  me  from  out  the  night  of  fears 

Into  the  light  of  life's  all  golden  years? 

I  know  not — only  that  last  night — as  then — 

I  heard  you  sing  again. 

12 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  13 

Last  night  you  came  to  me  and  brought  me  rest 
From  care  and  strife  as  in  the  days  of  yore  ; 
Or  was  it  but  the  ashes  of  dead  roses  pressed 
Between  the  leaves  I  turned  to  see  once  more? 
Ashes  of  roses  from  the  days  of  gleam 
When  life  was  more  than  ashes  of  a  dream? 
I  know  not — only  that  last  night — as  then — 
You  came  to  me  again. 


THE    TRIUMVIRATE 

When  a  touch  of  frost 

Creeps  in  the  air 

And  the  northwind's 

Roaring  bugles  blare; 

When  the  long,  gray  evenings 

Gather  down 

From  the  hills  that  shadow 

The  walled-in  town ; 


14  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

When  the  dripping  eaves 
In  a  bleak  refrain 
Chant  the  wail 
Of  a  winter's  rain, 
Oh,  where  is  the  poet 
Left  to  sing 
A  song  of  dream 
In  the  land  of  Spring? 
A  song  of  dream 
That  may  compare 
To  a  pipe — a  book — 
And  an  easy  chair? 

When  the  wild  blasts  howl 
And  the  shadows  flit 
Over  the  wall 
Where  the  fire  is  lit ; 
When  the  snow  drifts  deep 
And  the  driving  rain 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  15 

Sings  its  song 
At  the  window  pane ; 
When  the  dim  world  lies 
In  the  pit  of  night, 
As  the  gray  ghosts  shriek 
In  the  mad  gale's  flight, 
Oh,  where  is  the  poet 
Left  to  praise 
The  gleam  and  dream, 
Of  the  summer  ways? 
The  gleam  and  dream 
That  may  compare 
To  a  pipe — a  book — 
And  an  easy  chair? 

IN  LIFE'S  APRIL 

Here  let  the  sunshine  linger — 

The  softest  south  wind  stay; 
No  shadow  gather  over 

Life's  Little  Land  of  Play; 


16  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

No  sin  nor  sorrow  reach  them — 

No  storm  that  rushes  by 
Leave  for  the  dreamers  guarded  there 
The  echo  of  a  sigh. 

Give  them  the  breath  of  morning 

When  spring's  first  zephyr  blows 
To  paint  upon  each  pallid  cheek 

The  crimson  of  the  rose ; 
Wee  lips  as  pink  as  starlight, 

Bright  eyes  that  see  no  pain, 
As  tender  as  the  violets, 

Blue  wet  in  April's  rain. 

Give  them  to  know  life's  music 
Beyond  the  driving  years  ; 

Too  young  to  know  the  meaning 
Of  heartaches  and  of  tears; 

And  when  the  twilight  gathers 
By  valley,  hill  and  stream, 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  I? 

Give  them  across  the  darkness 
God's  sweetest  dream  to  dream. 

UNCLE  REMUS 
(Upon  the  death  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris.) 

There's  a  shadow  on  the  cotton  patch,  the  blue 
has  left  the  sky ; 

The  mourning  meadows  echo  with  the  south- 
wind's  saddened  sigh; 

And  the  gold  of  all  the  sunshine  in  Dixie's 
turned  to  gray, 

But  the  roses  and  the  violets  shall  hide  his  face 
away. 

The  Little  Boy  is  lonesome  and  his  eyes  are 

rilled  with  tears ; 
Beyond  the  mists  he  only  sees  the  shadows  of 

the  years ; 
The  light  now  lies  behind  him  with  his  best 

friend  gone  away ; 


18  SONGS    O  F    T  H  E    ST  A  LW  ART 

But  the  softest  winds  in  Dixie  at  his  heart  will 
kneel  to  pray. 

The  people  of  the  woodlands — the  fur  and  feath 
ered  clan — 

The  bear — the  fox — the  rabbit — will  miss  him 
more  than  man ; 

But  the  rose  that  sways  above  him  in  his  blos 
som-tented  tomb 

Shall  turn  its  crimson  lips  of  love  to  kiss  away 
the  gloom. 

The  shadow's  on  the  cotton  patch ;  the  light  has 

left  the  sky ; 
A  world  will  bow  in  sorrow  at  his  message  of 

good-bye ; 
And   the   gold    of    all    the    sunshine   in   Dixie's 

turned  to  gray; 
But  the  sweetest  flowers  of  the  South  will  hide 

his  face  away. 


THE   VANISHED    COUNTRY 

Back  in  the  Vanished  Country 

There's  a  cabin  in  a  lane, 
Across  the  yellow  sunshine 

And  the  silver  of  the  rain; 
A  cabin,  summer-shaded, 

Where  the  maples  whispered  low 
Dream  stones  of  the  world  winds 

That  a  fellow  used  to  know; 
And  it's  queer  that,  turning  gray, 

Still  a  fellow  looks  away 
To  a  land  he  knows  has  vanished 

Down  the  Path  of  Yesterday. 

Back  in  the  Vanished  Country 
There's  an  old-time  swinging  gate 

Through  the  early  dusk  of  summer 
Where  a  girl  had  come  to  wait ; 
19 


20  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

And  her  hair  was  like  the  sundrift 

From  the  heart  of  summer  skies, 
While  the  blue  of  God's  wide  heaven 

Crowned  the  splendor  of  her  eyes ; 
And  it's  queer  that,  turning  gray, 

Still  a  fellow  looks  away 
To  a  girl  he  knows  has  vanished 

Down  the  Path  of  Yesterday. 

Back  in  the  Vanished  Country 

There's  a  dream  that  used  to  be 
Of  Fame  within  the  city 

And  a  name  beyond  the  sea; 
A  dream  of  laurel  wreathings 

That  came  singing  through  the  light, 
The  story  of  the  glory 

Of  the  victor  in  the  fight ; 
And  it's  queer  that,  worn  and  gray, 

Still  a  fellow  looks  away 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  *I 

To  a  dream  he  knows  has  vanished 
Down  the  Path  of  Yesterday. 

GHOSTS  OF  THE  ALAMO 

There's  the  tramp  of  a  ghost  on  the  low  wind 
tonight, 

An  echo  that  drifts  like  a  dream  on  its  way; 

There's  the  blur  of  a  specter  that  leaves  for  the 
fight, 

Grave-risen  at  last  from  a  long  vanished  day ; 

There's  the  shout  and  the  call  of  grim  soul  unto 
soul, 

As  they  rise  one  by  one,  out  of  death's  shad 
owed  glen 

To  follow  the  bugle — the  drum's  muffled  roll 

Where  Ghosts  of  the  Alamo  gather  again. 

I  hear  Crockett's  voice  as  he  leaps  from  the 

dust 
And  waits  at  the  call  for  an  answering  hail ; 


22  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

And  Bowie  caresses  a  blade  red  with  rust 
As  deep  in  the  shadows  he  turns  to  the  trail ; 
Still  lost  in  the  darkness  that  covers  their  sleep 
Their  bodies  may  rest  in  a  sand-mounded  den, 
But  their  spirits  have  come  from  the  red  starry 

steep 
Where  Ghosts  of  the  Alamo  gather  again. 

You  think  they've  forgotten — because  they  have 
slept — 

The  day  Santa  Anna  charged  in  with  his  slaves, 

Where  five  thousand  men  on  a  bare  hundred 
swept 

And  stormed  the  last  rampart  that  stood  for 
their  graves  ? 

You  think  they've  forgotten — but  faint,  from 
afar, 

Brave  Travis  is  calling  the  roll  of  his  men, 

And  a  voice  answers,  "Here  !"  through  the  shad 
ows  that  bar 

Where  Ghosts  of  the  Alamo  gather  again. 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  23 

There's  a  flash  on  a  blade — and  you  thought  it 

a  star? 
There's  a  light  on  the  plain — and  you  thought  it 

the  moon  ? 
You  thought  the  wind  echoed  that  anthem  of 

war? 

Not  knowing  the  lilt  of  an  old  border  tune ; 
Gray    shade    after    shade,  stirred    again    unto 

breath, 
Gray  phantom  by  phantom  they  charge  down 

the  glen, 
Where  souls  hold  a  hate  that  is  greater  than 

death 
\Yhere  Ghosts  of  the  Alamo  gather  again. 

AT  THE  MORNING  GATE 

How  hard  the  road  may  be  for  me, 

How  rough  the  way  that  I  must  keep, 

How  weary  all  the  toil  may  be 

Means   nothing,   dear,   though   shadows    creep, 


24  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

If  you,  O  Little  Dreamer  there, 
Now  drifting  under  summer  skies, 
With  yellow  sunshine  in  your  hair 
And  starlight  in  your  shining  eyes, 
Shall  only  know  the  lane  of  light 
Where  God  has  kissed  each  shadow  white. 

How  far  the  song  may  drift  me, 
Who  only  hear  the  weary  cry 
Of  Sorrow's  ceaseless  threnody 
Beneath  a  dim  and  starless  sky 
Shall  matter  not,  if  I  but  know, 
O  Little  Dreamer,  that  your  feet 
Shall  follow  where  the  southwinds  blow 
Love's  blossoms  that  shall  make  life  sweet- 
Sweet  through  the  years  that  wait  for  you 
With  every  little  dream  come  true. 


THROUGH  THE  SMOKE  WREATH 

You'd  think  the  years  that  stand  between — 

The  long  gray  years  in  endless  passing — 
Would  leave  but  darkness  on  the  scene 

Of  memory  in  backward  passing; 
That  fleeting  Time  would  take  its  rip 

Across  the  rope  of  friendship's  tether — 
Fair  nights  of  happy  comradeship — 

Brave  days  of  willing  toil  together. 

And  yet — across  the  board  tonight 

I  see  them  once  more  holding  session ; 
Ralph  Smith  is  banking — at  his  right 

Lane  sits  in  heavy-faked  depression ; 
And  Burke  is  kidding — drawing  blind — 

Two  cards  to  flush — and  never  failing — 
And  where  Camp  holds  three  of  a  kind 

I  hear  once  more  the  echoes  wailing. 
25 


26  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Where  Saul  and  Marquis  hold  the  board 

In  jibe  and  jest,  gay  wit,  romances; 
Where  Goodwin  cops  the  blue-stacked  hoard 

And  pikes  it  back  in  foolish  chances ; 
Where  Johnson  calls — and  Harris  "shows" — 

Across  the  old-time  track  again, 
Beyond  the  night  some  lost  wind  blows 

Their  vanished  voices  back  again. 

Tobacco  smoke  that  gathers  thick — 

A  line  of  steins  around  the  table ; 
Ah,  but  the  dawn  has  come  too  quick 

With  light  across  the  midnight's  sable ; 
Across  Time's  sweep,  that  dims  and  blurs, 

They  meet  no  more — with  Fate  to  reckon; 
No  more  the  pleading  "Kitty"  purrs, 

Save  in  a  dream  the  pipe  can  beckon. 

You'd  think  the  years  would  well  wipe  out 
Such  vanished  scenes  from  life's  lost  places; 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  2? 

That  Time  would  banish  in  its  rout 
The  voices  dim — the  missing  faces; 

The  Game  is  broken  up — and  yet 

There  comes  a  splicing  of  the  tether 

When  one  through  smoke-wreaths  won't  forget 
To  sometimes  call  the  bunch  together. 

SOMEWHERE  BACK 

I  knew  a  kid  one  day 

Who   looked   beyond  wide   orchard  lanes   of 

white 
To  where  a  fellow  held  the  laureled  way 

Of  fame  and  name  and  fortune  in  the  fight ; 
A  kid  who  heard  Life  calling,  and  who  turned 

To  catch  the  echo  of  far-marching  feet 
Where  crimson  fires  of  glory  flashed  and  burned 

Along  the  borders  of  the  swarming  street. 

I  know  a  fellow  now 
WTho  looks  across  gray  years  with  weary  eyes 


28  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Beyond  the  laurel  and  the  olive  bough 

To    old,    old    dreams    beneath    remembered 
skies, 

To  fields  of  golden  harvest  and  the  glow 

Of  God's  lost  sunshine  waning  to  the  gleam 

Of  starlit  dusk  back  home,  so  long  ago 
It  only  seems  the  phantom  of  a  dream. 

I  know  a  fellow  who 

Would  give  Life's  motley  fame  again  to  be 
In    orchard    drifts    where    lost    winds    wander 
through 

And  whisper  sighing  from  the  bending  tree ; 
Who  dreams  at  each  gray  dusk  within  his  den 

Of  old-time  honor  and  old-fashioned  truth, 
And  cries  to  God  to  lead  him  back  again 

And  leave  him  with  the  clean,  brave  faith  of 
youth. 


THE    LITTLE    LAND   OF    MORNING 

O  Little  Land  of  Morning  where  they  have  a 

dream  to  cling  to, 
There's  many  a  dim  eye  turning  through  the 

mist  and  rain  of  tears ; 
Where  they  have  a  hope  beyond  them  and  a 

brave  youth  faith  to  swing  to 
And  a  golden  vision  beckons  out  the  highway 

of  the  years ; 

Where  the  fable  of  the  reindeer  was  a  truth  be 
yond  denying 
Ere  the  Gift  God  of  the  Northland  had  been 

turned  into  a  wraith — 
O  Little  Land  of  Morning  in  what  borders  are 

you  lying 
Where  a  weary  heart  may  find  you  out  the 

path  of  vanished  faith? 
29 


30  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

O  Little  Land  of  Morning,  are  your  highways 

barred  forever 
To  the  many  who  have  wandered  through  the 

arches  of  your  gates? 
May  the   dreamers  who  have   known   you  find 

your  phantom  portals  never 
Or,  in  finding,  no  more  enter  by  the  gray, 

grim-guarding  fates? 

Must  the  dream  forever  linger  in  a  dim  and  dis 
tant  yearning 
That  can  never  gather  closer  to  the  dream  we 

used  to  know? 

O  Little  Land  of  Morning,  can  we  find  no  back 
ward  turning 

Through  the  shadows  and  the  darkness  to  the 
dream  of  long  ago? 


ABOVE   THE    DARKNESS 

Deep  in  the  dusk,  Dear,  the  roses  are  sleeping; 
Down  from  the  hills,  Dear,  the  low  wind  conies 

creeping, 

Creeping  and  whispering 
"Dreamer — good-night — 
Dream  of  the  morning 
And  God's  world  of  light — 
Dream — O  Little  One — dreams  that  are  true, 
Dreams  of  the  starlight,  the  dawn  and  the  dew, 
Safe  in  your  nest,  Dear, 
Sleep,  Dear,  and  rest,  Dear, 
God  in  His  heaven  keeps  watch  over  you." 

Over  the  world,  Dear,  the  twilight  is  falling, 
Low  through  the  dusk,  Pear,  the   south  wind 

comes  calling — 
Calling  and  whispering 


32  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

"God  give  you  rest — 

God  in  His  goodness 

Keep  guard  by  your  nest ; 

Dream — O  Little  One — dream  of  the  light, 

Dream  of  the  morning  that  He  shall  kiss  white— 

For  while  you  sleep,  Dear, 

His  care  shall  creep,  Dear, 

From  the  far  skies  to  your  cradle  tonight." 


THE   LOST   GODDESS 

When  the  world  is  sweet  with  the  breath  of  rose 

And  the  white-thorn  hedge  is  a  wall  of  gleam ; 
When  an  incense  comes  as  the  south  wind  blows 

And  the  days  move  by  in  the  drift  of  dream; 
\Vhen  life  is  but  half  awake  at  best 

And  ghosts  of  the  twilight  hover  near, 
And  old,  old  longing  stirs  the  breast 

And  we  turn  to  Her  and  the  Yesteryear. 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  33 

When  tassel  plumes  of  the  cornland  bend 

To  drifting  winds  of  a  dreamy  day ; 
When  drowsy  birds  in  the  maples  send 

Their  songs  of  peace  to  the  world  away; 
When  lanes  are  light  with  the  morning's  glow 

And  night,  with  the  silver  moon,  comes  clear, 
There's  a  tug  at  the  heart  from  the  Long  Ago 

And  we  turn  to  Her  and  the  Yesteryear. 

A  phantom  from  out  of  the  old,  lost  ways, 

From  city  and  meadow,  from  street  or  stream ; 
A  wraith  from  the  vanished  yesterdays 

Where  the   heart  goes   back   to   a   summer's 

dream ; 
We  only  know  that  the  dream  has  passed, 

That  the  voice  is  lost  where  the  night  is  near, 
But  as  long  as  the  summer  roses  last 

We  turn  to  Her  and  the  Yesteryear. 


WIND   OF   THE    NIGHT 

Wind   of   the  night   of   winter — blown   from  a 

starless  track, 
Whispering  there   in  the   Darkness,   where  the 

shadows  whisper  back, 
Why  must  you  haunt  my  casement,  under  the 

rain-wet  eaves, 
With  voices  of  ghosts  forgotten  in  the  rustle  of 

withered  leaves? 

Wind  of  the  night  of  winter — calling  to  me  as 

you  creep, 
WThispering  there  in  the  shadows  where  the  dark 

of  the  night  is  deep; 
Crying  of   days   forgotten — sighing   for   dreams 

long  sped, 
Why  must  you  blow   gray  ghosts   again   from 

graves  of  the  vanished  dead? 
34 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  35 

And  there  is  a  Voice  in  the  shadows— a  Voice 

from  a  vanished  day — 
A  song  from  the  heart  of  Springtime  blown  from 

the  fields  of  May; 
Clear  as  a  woodland  ripple  from  the  roll  of  a 

silver  stream, 
Till  the  Night  is  sweet  with  the  music  and  the 

Dark  with  an  old,  old  dream. 

Wind  of  the  night  of  winter — here  I  have  come 

for  rest — 
For  peace  in  the  gloom  of  my  lonesome  room  as 

a  worn  bird  seeks  its  nest ; 
Why  must  you  haunt  my  casement,  under  the 

rain-wet  eaves 
With  voices  of  ghosts  forgotten  in  the  rustle  of 

withered  leaves? 


WHEN    SUMMER    DAYS    WERE    LONG 

"He'd  nothing  but  his  violin — I'd  nothing  but  my 

song — 

Yet  we  zvere  wed  when  skies  were  blue  and 
summer  days  were  long" — 

In  Life's  Lost  Gardens  through  the  years 

The  Dreamer  still  seeks  vanished  ways 
That  lead  through  heartache  and  through  tears 

Into  the  drift  of  Yesterdays; 
To  Yesterdays  when  dreams  came  true 

And  two,  apart  from  all  the  throng, 
Meet  once  again  when  skies  are  blue 

And  summer  days  are  long. 

Once  more  he  walks  the  old-time  lanes, 
And  in  the  dream  that  follows  there 

Puts  "blood  of  roses  in  her  veins," 
"Spins  yellow  sunshine  for  her  hair"; 
36 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  37 

While  growing  shadows  blur  the  view 
He  hears  once  more  an  old-time  song  — 

He  only  knows  that  skies  are  blue 
And  summer  days  are  long. 


Once  more  he  drifts  out  from  the 

And  leaves  his  place  amid  the  game; 
Beyond  the  purple  haze  of  night 

He  turns  his  burdened  back  on  fame; 
In  vain  the  future  sings  its  due 

Of  glory  with  the  brave  and  strong; 
He  only  cares  that  skies  are  blue 

And  summer  days  are  long. 

In  Life's  dim  Garden,  one  by  one, 
We  seek  again  some  vanished  day; 

That  calls  us,  when  our  Youth  is  done, 
Across  the  Fields  of  Far  Away; 

Through  gray  lost  years  when  dreams  came  true 
And  each  one  followed  some  old  song; 


3$  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

When  Life  but  knew  that  skies  were  blue 
And  summer  days  were  long. 

THE  LEAGUE  OF  ONCE-UPON-A-TIME 

Once  upon  a  time  I  knew 
A  freckled,  bare-ioot  fellow  who 
Knew  life  but  as  a  summer's  dream! — 
A  song  that  came  from  bird  or  stream — 
Who  knew  the  world  but  as  a  place 

The  yellow  sunshine  bathed  in  light, 
Or  where  the  rosebud  showed  its  face 

Amid  the  dew  of  morning  bright ; 
A  place  where  morning  held  its  prime — 
But  that  was  "once  upon  a  time." 

And  once  upon  a  time  I  knew 
The  same  far  little  fellow,  who 
Looked  out  upon  the  world  with  faith 
And  endless  hope — nor  saw  the  wraith 


SONGS    OFTHE    STALWART  39 

That  loomed  above  him  through  the  years — 
The  wraith  of  dreams  that  wandered  down 

The  shadowed  way  of  sighs  and  tears 
And  vanished  in  the  far-off  town ; 

He  saw  the  dream  but  in  its  prime — 

But  that  was  "once  upon  a  time." 

WHEN    CHRISTMAS    CALLS 

Christmas  has  called — and  I  want  to  go  home; 
Christmas  has  whispered — and  out  through  the 

night 
There's  something  which  beckons  to  us  who  must 

roam 

Far  from  the  berries  of  scarlet  and  white ; 
There's  something  which  beckons — and  out  on 

the  road 

We  follow  the  way  of  a  dream  that  is  old, 
And  weary  the  travel  and  heavy  the  load 

Of  those  who  may  never  turn  back  to  the  fold. 


4<>  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

I  want  to  go  back  to  the  day  where  at  dawn 

A  tow-headed  youngster  rushed  forth  with  a 

whoop 
To  the  clarion  call  of  the  Little  Tin  Horn 

And  the  roll  of  the  drum  as  it  summoned  its 

troop 
Of  the  tin  soldiered  legion  with  muskets  agleam, 

Serried  and  straight  in  an  unbroken  row — 
I  want  to  go  back  where  a  fellow  can  dream 

Of  Christmas  like  that  in  the  Longtime  Ago. 

THE    SORT   OF   A    GIRL    WE    USED 
TO   KNOW 

(To  a  friend  who  desires  to  know  what  type  of 
book  we  might  like  for  Christmas.) 

This  is  a  book  that  I  want  from  you — 
Where  red  Romance  comes  slashing  by; 

Of  a  pirate  ship  with  a  cut-throat  crew 
Led  on  by  the  Mate  with  an  Evil  Eye; 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  41 

Or,  an  old-fashioned  girl  from  the  long  ago 
Who  isn't  a  "chicken"  nor  yet  a  "queen," 

But  the  sort  of  a  girl  we  used  to  know — 
Or  have  you  forgotten  the  sort  I  mean? 

I  want  Her  a  thousand  leagues  away 

From  a  cabaret  or  a  Broadway  show, 
Put  back  again  in  the  fields  of  May, 

The  sort  of  a  girl  we  used  to  know — 
An  old-fashioned  sort  that  we  can't  forget 

When  a  lost  dream  moves  through  the  night 

of  fears, 
Of  apple  blossoms — and  mignonette — 

Blown  once  more  from  the  rose-sweet  years. 

I  want  a  book  for  a  winter  night 

When  the  long,  gray  evenings  gather  down, 
Where  I  can  read  of  a  slashing  fight 

Or  dream  again  of  a  country  town, 


42  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Where  the  old-time  maples  sway  and  croon 
Lost  lullabies  from  the  long  ago; 

Where  I  can  dream  of  a  vanished  moon — 
And  the  sort  of  a  girl  we  used  to  know. 

A  SONG  THAT'S  OUT  OF  DATE 

Let's  sing  an  old-time  song  again, 

Of  good,  old-fashioned  days; 
A  song  that  leads  us  back  again 

To  Life's  long  vanished  ways ; 
Back  where  a  cabin  crowns  the  lane 

And  in  the  fading  light 
Of  where  a  waiting  mother  calls 

Her  kid  in  from  the  night. 

Let's  sing  an  old-time  song  again 

Amid  these  ribald  tunes; 
Of  all  the  rose-sweet  dreams  that  swept 

Across  the  moon-red  Junes; 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  43 

Of  one  who  held  an  ancient  sway 

Beneath  remembered  skies, 
With  apple  blossoms  in  Her  drift, 

And  Morning  in  Her  eyes. 

Let's  sing  an  old-time  melody 

Of  laughter  or  of  tears; 
A  song  of  simple  sentiment 

From  out  the  vanished  years ; 
A  song  that  doesn't  reek  with  slime 

Nor  pitch  its  tone  to  laud 
The  dance  hall's  drunken  revelry — 

The  red  haunts  of  the  bawd. 

POOR   LITTLE   DEVIL 

Poor  little  devil,  ragged  in  the  street, 
On  an  endless  journey  out  the  way  of  weary  feet ; 
Lonesome  in  the  darkness,  toiling  in  the  light, 
One  among  the  workers  in  the  struggle  and  the 
fight; 


44  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Little  time  to  dream  in — little  less  for  play, 
Never  knows  the  meaning  of  a  boyland  holiday; 
Poor  little  devil,  only  wish  that  I 
Knew  a  way  to  help  him,  as  he  wanders  by. 

Poor  little  devil/  fighting  it  alone, 
Funny  that  he's  whistling  such  a  cheery  tone ; 
Little  time  to  dream  in — little  time  to  play, 
Funny  he  keeps  singing  so  blithely  on  the  way ; 
Queer  he  doesn't  understand  what  a  ragged  trick 
Life  has  turned  upon  him  that  he  doesn't  ever 

kick; 

Funny  he  is  happier  than  so  many  seem 
With  a  lot  of  time  to  play  and  loaf  about  and 

dream ; 

Poor  little  fellow — only  wish  that  I 
Knew  a  way  to  help  him,  as  he  whistles  by. 


THE   STORY   OF    THE   ROSE 

She  cut  me  loose  from  my  swaying  stem 

In  the  sweep  of  the  silver  dew ; 
She  took  me  away  from  my  garden  home 

And  the  old-time  friends  I  knew; 
Away  from  the  fold  of  my  crimson  clan 

Through  a  hallway,  dark  and  cool, 
Where  she  buried  my  thirsty,  drooping  lips 

In  the  depths  of  a  crystal  pool 

She  brought  me  forth  in  the  twilight's  shade 

With  a  smile,  as  her  red  lips  pressed 
Against  my  own,  and  her  eyes  were  bright 

As  my  head  leaned  to  her  breast ; 
And  together  we  wandered  forth  again 

Where  the  moon  danced  through  the  trees, 
And  the  breath  of  my  clan  came  back  to  me 

On  the  drift  of  the  twilight  breeze. 
45 


46  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Our  pathway  led  to  the  garden  gate, 
When  out  through  the  moonlight  clear 

Another  came  up  the  winding  road 
With  an  old-time  song  of  cheer; 

And  side  by  side  on  the  rustic  bench 
They  sat  where  the  stars  shone  dim, 

And  when  he  left  for  the  road  again 

He  took  me  away  with  him. 

*  *  *  * 

He  opened  the  dusty  book  one  night 

Where  I  had  lain  through  the  years; 
And  his  eyes,  half  closed  in  the  lonesome  room, 

Looked  down  through  the  mist  of  tears; 
And  he  held  me  there  till  the  gray  dawn  swept 

The  shadow  away  with  its  gleams — 
"Ashes  of  roses — "  I  heard  him  say — 

"Ashes  of  roses — and  dreams." 


OVER   THE   WAYS 

Where  the  birds  and  the  blossoms 

Used  to  wait, 
There  with  Her 

At  the  Morning  Gate; 
In  the  old,  old  days 

Of  the  glow  and  gleam, 
Of  love  and  light 

And  a  summer's  dream — 
I  wonder  if  ever 

She  cares  to  know 
That  over  the  years 

Which  have  vanished  so, 
Some  one  still  turns 

From   a  lonesome  night, 
To  a  rose-red  dream 

In  a  land  of  light? 
47 


48  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

That  one  still  looks 

To  the  tryst  of  old, 
By  the  rose-rimmed  gate 

And  the  path  of  gold? 

I  wonder  if  ever 

Across  the  years, 
As  the  long  day  wanes 

And  the  gray  dusk  nears — 
As  in  a  glint 

From  a  purple  sea, 
The  star  dust  drifts 

Through  the  maple  tree — 
I  wonder  if  ever 

She  thinks  again, 
Of  a  dream  that  was — 

Or — might  have  been? 
When  the  world  was  sweet 

At  the  dream  day's  close 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  49 

With  the  drift  of  bloom 

And  the  breath  of  rose? 
Do  dead  dreams  rise 

At  the  dusk  for  Her 
And  call  again 

Of  the  days  that  were? 

IN    FAR   OFF   LANDS 
In  Far  Off  Lands  today  where  lost  paths  run 

A  Little  Boy  looks  up  into  God's  sky, 
Through  apple  blossoms  swaying  in  the  sun 

That  drift  as  summer  south  winds  whisper  by; 
And  as  he  looks  upon  his  face  there  comes 

The  light  that  only  fame's  white  dream  can 

yield, 
To  him  who  hears  far  off  the  roll  of  drums, 

The  silver  bugle  calling  to  the  field. 

I  watch  him  leave  the  happy  fields  he  knew, 
The  waving  grasses  and  the  wide,  kind  sky, 


5°  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

The  harvest  song  that  winds  and  echoes  through 
Lost  summer  days  of  sunshine  drifting  by; 

The  paths  of  faith  and  honesty  and  truth, 
To  follow  through  the  mire  of  doubt  and  greed 

And  tangled  ways  that  lead  so  far  from  youth, 
That  sent  him  forth  to  where  his  dream  might 
lead. 

From  Far  OfT  Lands  that  hold  their  place  apart 

I  see  him  take  the  gray  trail  of  the  years — 
Struggling  and  stumbling — weary,  sick  at  heart, 
Groping  in  blindness  through  the  night  of  fears 
With  outstretched  hands  that  still  reach  for  a 

dream 
That  lures  and  leads  and  beckons — yet  still 

keeps 

Dim  in  the  distance — as  a  light  that  streams 
Beyond    far    vales    where    endless    darkness 
creeps. 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  51 

Nearer  and  nearer,  from  the  throng  apart 

I  see  him  fighting  blindly  in  the  fray, 
With  mighty  pity  surging  through  my  heart 

That  one  should  be  so  far  from  off  the  way, 
So  far  from  that  dim  dream  youth  left  behind, 

With  none  to  show  the  proper  road  to  fare, 
Until,  with  sudden  start,  I  wake  to  find 

Him  whom  I  pitied  sitting  in  my  chair. 


LOST   LANES 

It's  morning  in  the  fields  again — 

The  light  is  on  the  lane 
That  winds  out  from  the  cabin 

To  the  drift  of  waving  grain; 
And  God's  blue  sky  swings  over 

The  meadow  and  the  moor 
Where  the  sweet  breath  of  the  clover 

Ripples  through  the  cabin  door; 


52  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

But  in  the  Lonesome  City — the  smoke  has  blurred 

the  sky, 
And  the  southwind's  only  whisper  is  the  echo  of 

a  sigh. 

The  light  is  on  the  fields  today — 

Above  the  grinding  throng 
That  crowds  the  city's  borders 

Drifts  the  plowman's  morning  song; 
The  silver  streams  are  singing 

Where  the  gray,  rock-fretted  rills 
Reecho  from  the  valleys 

To  the  maples  on  the  hills ; 
But  in  the  Lonesome  City — the  endless  shadows 

creep 

Where  the  day  of  song  is  over  and  the  weary 
come  to  weep. 

Far,  far  away  the  fields  today 
Call  back  across  the  years, 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  53 

And  we  who  hear  look  backward  through 

The  heavy  mist  of  tears ; 
We  see  the  old  road  winding 

From  the  cabin  in  the  lane 
Across  the  Land  of  Morning 

To  the  drift  of  waving  grain — 
But  in  the  Lonesome  City — a  shadow  blurs  the 
sky 

And  the  southwind's  only  whisper  is  the  echo 
of  a  sigh. 

THE    ALIEN 
They  called  him  Alien — him  who  knew 

No  tie  to  bind  within  one  home — 
No  place  to  rest  beneath  God's  Blue, 

But  one  who  must  forever  roam; 
No  light  to  beckon  in  the  night — 

No  voice  to  plead — to  call  him  back ; 
No  long  remembered  lanes  of  light 

To  wait  when  he  might  seek  the  track 


54  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

They  call  him  Alien — and  he  smiled 

As  one  who  comes  to  know  at  last — 
To  know  that  what  far  place  beguiled 

Was  Home  for  him  till  he  had  passed  ; 
They  called  him  Alien — him  who  knew 

The  way  of  every  wind  that  roams — 
Who,  wandering  beneath  God's  Blue, 

Held  in  his  heart  a  thousand  homes. 


WHEN    SPRING    COMES    BACK 

When  Spring  comes  back — old  dreams  come,  too, 
Across  the  starlight  and  the  dew, 
From  vanished  years  and  distant  ways 
Through  many,  many  yesterdays — 
Dreams  that  in  winter's  sweep  of  snow 

We  thought  had  passed  forever  by, 
But  when  the  south  wind  whispers  low 

And  God's  blue  gets  back  in  the  sky 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  55 

Where  bud  and  bloom  crown  vale  and  hill 
We  find  them  waiting  for  us  still. 

Sometimes  they  seek  us  in  the  breath 

From  lilac  bush  along  the  lane; 
Sometimes  they  bring  back  Life  from  Death 

Through  some  old  song — some  dim  refrain — 
Or  yet — a  rosebud  in  the  rain 
Will  beckon  to  our  startled  gaze, 
And  back  again  by  vanished  ways 
We  thread  lost  Twilights  to  the  dew 
Of  Love's  sweet  Morning  that  we  knew 
In  some  far  blossom-scented  Spring 
Wrhen  gypsy  hearts  went  wandering. 

And  then — they  come  to  us  and  wait 
At  dusk  beside  the  garden  gate, 
And  from  the  drifting  shadows  there 
They  weave  a  well-remembered  face — 


56  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

A  red  rose  gathered  in  her  hair — 

A  smile  that  sweeps  through  time  and  space 
And  in  the  whisper  of  the  trees 
A  voice  drifts  back  upon  the  breeze — 
As  tender  and  as  soft  and  sweet 
As  winds  that  ripple  through  the  wheat 
And  stir  again  dead  memories. 

They  seek  us  in  the  morning  sun — 
Then  follow  still  when  day  is  done — 
In  song  or  blossom  or  the  mist 

Of  rain  that  gathers  from  the  hills — 
Gray  shadows  beckon  to  the  tryst 

That  waits  beyond  rock- fretted  rills, 
Until,  like  vagabonds  adrift, 

We  wander  back  across  the  ways 
To  seek  again  the  vanished  shift 

Of  Life  in  Love's  dim  yesterdays. 


SEPTEMBERS    AGO 

How  many — how  many  Septembers  ago — 
Only  the  God  of  the  Dreamer  may  know, 
When  out  from  the  Border  of  Summer  we  came, 

Where  the  bud  and  the  blossom  were  wilting 

away, 
And  the  roses  that  crimsoned  the  wall  in  a  flame 

Were  gray  as  the  ashes  of  dead  dreams  are 

gray- 
When  out  from  the  Border  of  Summer  we  passed 
And  the  dream  of  a  Dreamer  was  over  at  last. 

And  summer  will  come  with  its  starlight  and  dew, 
But  never  the  summer  of  dream  that  we  knew ; 
For  still  on  the  night  when  the  winds  whisper 

low, 
And  the  gray  ghosts  of  roses  come  down  from 

the  wall, 

57 


58  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

There's  an  echo  that  comes  as  the  faint  breezes 

blow 
In  a  voice  from  the  silence  where  gray  shadows 

fall- 
How  many — how  many  Septembers  ago — 
Only  the  God  of  the  Dreamer  may  know. 

FROM    THE    LONG   ROAD 

When  I  come  home  again — 
To  ghosts  and  shadows  of  a  vanished  day; 
When  I  have  seen  old  faces  there,  and  when 
I've  journeyed  down  some  well-remembered  way, 
The  pathway  to  the  river — and  the  lane 
Which  still  holds  dreams  one  life  cannot  forget — 
Through  purple  dusks  and  aisles  of  April  rain — 
And  maybe  someone  who  remembers  yet — 

I  wonder  if  the  sun  will  seem  as  gold 
As  I  once  knew  it  in  the  days  gone  by? 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  59 

I  wonder  if  the  paths  I  knew  of  old 

Will  wind  beneath  as  deep  and  blue  a  sky 

As  I  once  loved  before  I  went  away? 

Or  if  the  songs  of  birds  will  seem  as  sweet — 

The  bluebird's  call — the  catbird's  roundelay — 

As  when  I  wandered  down  the  old  home  beat  ? 

When  I  come  home  again — 
Back  from  the  long,  long  road  of  toil  and  strife, 
Where  pallid  faces  haunt  the  ways  of  men 
And  brotherhood  is  war  unto  the  knife ; 
Back  to  the  blossoms'  canopy  of  gleam, 
Where  pink  and  white  the  tangled  blooms  lay 

curled 

Before  the  wastrel  winds  had  blown  the  dream 
That  led  me  to  the  City  of  the  World — 

I  wonder,  when  the  twilight  shadows  fall 
Just  as  the  moon  has  climbed  the  ancient  hill, 


60  SONGS    OF   THE    STALWART 

Out  by  the  gate  where  roses  guard  the  wall — 
I  wonder  if  I'll  find  YOU  waiting  still, 
Remembering  me  the  weary  seasons  through 
With  eyes  aglow  just  as  you  waited  then? 
I  wonder  if  the  joy  will  be  yours,  too, 
When  I  come  home  again? 


SONGS   OF   COURAGE 


FROM  THE  HIGHWAY 

For  a  gift — the  grip  of  your  hand, 

A  word  that  may  cheer  or  guide ; 
A  friendly  hail  from  the  band, 

Godspeed  where  the  trails  divide; 
Then  on  through  the  sun  and  rain, 

Then  on  through  the  wind  and  snow ; 
What  is  there  else  to  gain  ? 

What  is  there  left  to  know? 

For  a  gift — your  smile  through  the  gray 

Dim  dusk  of  the  rover's  heather ; 
"Good  luck" — that  you  call  my  way, 

Or  a  friendly  beaker  together; 
Then  on  through  the  wind  and  snow, 

Then  on  through  the  sun  and  rain ; 
\Vhat  is  there  else  to  know? 

What  is  there  left  to  gain  ? 
63 


THE   CALL  OF   THE   UNBEATEN 

We  know  how  rough  the  road  will  be, 
How  heavy  here  the  load  will  be, 

We  know  about  the  barricades  that  wait  along 

the  track; 

But  we  have  set  our  soul  ahead 
Upon  a  certain  goal  ahead 

And  nothing  left  from  hell  to  sky  shall  ever 
turn  us  back. 

We  know  how  brief  all  fame  must  be, 
We  know  how  crude  the  game  must  be, 

We  know  how  soon  the  cheering  turns  to  jeer 
ing  down  the  block ; 
But  there's  a  deeper  feeling  here 
That  Fate  can't  scatter  reeling  here, 

In   knowing  we  have  battled   with  the  final 
ounce  in  stock. 

64 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  65 

We  sing  of  no  wild  glory  now, 
Emblazoning  some  story  now 
Of  mighty  charges  down  the  field  beyond  some 

guarded  pit; 

But  humbler  tasks  befalling  us, 
Set  duties  that  are  calling  us, 

Where  nothing  left  from  hell  to  sky  shall  ever 
make  us  quit. 

BRAVE    LIFE 

I  do  not  know  what  I  shall  find  on  out  beyond 

the  final  fight ; 
I  do  not  know  what  I  shall  meet  beyond  the  last 

barrage  of  night ; 
Nor  do  I  care — but  this  I  know — if  I  but  serve 

within  the  fold 
And  play  the  game — I'll  be  prepared  for  all  the 

endless  years  may  hold. 


66  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Life  is  a  training  camp  at  best  for  what  may  wait 
beyond  the  years; 

A  training  camp  of  toiling  days  and  nights  that 
lean  to  dreams  and  tears; 

But  each  may  come  upon  the  goal,  and  build  his 
soul  above  all  Fate 

By  holding  an  unbroken  faith  and  taking  Cour 
age  for  a  mate. 

Is  not  the  fight  itself  enough  that  man  must  look 
to  some  behest? 

Wherein  does  Failure  miss  Success  if  all  en 
gaged  but  do  their  best  ? 

Where  does  the  Victor's  cry  come  in  for  wreath 
of  fame  or  laureled  brow 

If  one  he  vanquished  fought  as  well  as  weaker 
muscle  would  allow? 

If  my  opponent  in  the  fray  should  prove  to  be  a 
stronger  foe — 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  ^7 

Not  of  his  making— but  because  the  Destinies 

ordained  it  so; 
If  he  should  win— and  I  should  lose— although  I 

did  my  utmost  part, 
Is  my  reward  the  less  than  his  if  he  should  strive 

with  equal  heart? 

Brave  Life,  I  hold,  is  something  more  than  driv 
ing  upward  to  the  peak; 

Than  smashing  madly  through  the  strong,  and 
crashing  onward  through  the  weak; 

I  hold  the  man  who  makes  his  fight  against  the 
raw  game's  crushing  odds 

Is  braver  than  his  brothers  are  who  hold  the 
favor  of  the  gods. 

On  by  the  sky  line,  faint  and  vague,  in  that  Far 

Country  all  must  know, 
No  laurel  crown  of  fame  may  wait  beyond  the 

sunset's  fading  glow; 


6*  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

But  life  has  given  me  the  chance  to  train  and 

serve  within  the  fold, 
To  meet  the  test — and  be  prepared  for  all  the 

endless  years  may  hold. 

BALLADE   OF   THE   GAMEFISH 

"Only  the  gamefish  swims  upstream." 

— COLONEL  JOHN  TROTWOOD  MOORE. 

Where  the  puddle  is  shallow,  the  weakfish  stay 

To  drift  along  with  the  current's  flow; 
To  take  the  tide  as  it  moves  each  day 

With  the  idle  ripples  that  come  and  go; 
With  a  shrinking  fear  of  the  gales  that  blow 

By  distant  coasts  where  the  Great  Ports  gleam  ; 
Where  the  far  heights  call  through  the  silver 
glow, 

"Only  the  gamefish  swims  upstream." 

Where  the  shore  is  waiting,  the  minnows  play, 
Borne  by  the  current's  undertow ; 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  69 

Drifting,  fluttering  on  their  way, 

Bound  by  a  fate  that  has  willed  it  so ; 

In  the  tree-flung  shadows  they  never  know 
How  far  they  have  come  from  the  old,  brave 
dream ; 

Where  the  wild  gales  call  from  the  peaks  of  snow, 
"Only  the  gamefish  swims  upstream/' 

Where  the  tide  rolls  down  in  a  flash  of  spray 
And  strikes  with  the  might  of  a  bitter  foe, 
The  shrimp  and  the  sponge  are  held  at  bay 
Wrhere  the  dusk  winds  call  and  the  sun  sinks 

low; 
They  call  it  Fate  in  their  endless  woe 

As  they  shrink  in  fear  when  the  wild  hawks 

scream 
From  the  crags  and  crests  where  the  great  thorns 

grow, 
"Only  the  gamefish  swims  upstream." 


7°  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Held  with  the  current  the  Fates  bestow, 
The  driftwood  moves  to  a  sluggish  theme, 

Nor  heeds  the  call  which  the  Far  Isles  throw, 
"Only  the  gamefish  swims  upstream." 

THE   TRAINERS 

My  name  is   Trouble — I'm  a  busy  bloke — 

I  am  the  test  of  Courage — and  of  Class — 
I  bind  the  coward  to  a  bitter  yoke, 

I  drive  the  craven  from  the  crowning  pass ; 
Weaklings  I  crush  before  they  come  to  fame, 

But  as  the  red  star  guides  across  the  night, 
I  train  the  stalwart  for  a  better  game; 

I  drive  the  brave  into  a  harder  fight. 

My    name    is    Hard    Luck — wrecker    of    rare 
dreams — 

I  follow  all  who  seek  the  open  fray ; 
I  am  the  shadow  where  the  far  light  gleams 

For  those  who  seek  to  know  the  open  way; 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  7* 

Quitters  I  break  before  they  reach  the  crest, 
But  where  the  red  field  echoes  with  the  drums, 

I  build  the  fighter  for  the  final  test 

And  mold  the  brave  for  any  drive  that  comes. 

My  name  is  Sorrow — I  shall  come  to  all 
To  block  the  surfeit  of  an  endless  joy; 

Along  the  Sable  Road  I  pay  my  call 

Before  the  sweetness  of  success  can  cloy; 

And  weaker  souls  shall  weep  amid  the  throng 
And  fall  before  me,  broken  and  dismayed ; 

But  braver  hearts  shall  know  that  I  belong 
And  take  me  in,  serene  and  unafraid. 

My  name's  Defeat — but  through  the  bitter  fight, 
To  those  who  know,  I'm  something  more  than 
friend ; 

For  I  can  build  beyond  the  wrath  of  might 
And  drive  away  all  yellow  from  the  blend; 


72  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

For  those  who  quit,  I  am  the  final  blow, 

But  for  the  brave  who  seek  their  chance  to 
learn, 

I  show  the  way,  at  last,  beyond  the  foe, 

To  where  the  scarlet  flames  of  triumph  burn. 

ON    BEING   READY 
The  man  who  is  there  with  the  wallop  and  punch, 

The  one  who  is  trained  to  the  minute, 
May  well  be  around  when  the  trouble  begins, 

But  you  seldom  will  find  he  is  in  it; 
For  they  let  him  alone  when  they  know  he  is  there 

For  any  set  part  in  the  ramble, 
To  pick  out  the  one  who  is  shrinking  and  soft 

And  not  quite  attuned  to  the  scramble. 

The  one  who  is  fixed  for  whatever  they  start 

Is  rarely  expected  to  prove  it; 
They  pass  him  along  for  the  next  shot  in  sight 

Where  they  take  a  full  wind-up  and  groove  it ; 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  73 

For  who  wants  to  pick  on  a  bulldog  or  such 
Where  a  quivering  poodle  is  handy, 

When  he  knows  he  can  win  with  a  kick  or  a  brick 
With  no  further  trouble  to  bandy? 

THE   GIFT   OF   THE   GODS 

If  I  may  call  you  friend,  I  wish  you  this — 

No  gentle  destiny  throughout  the  years; 
No  soft  content,  or  ease,  or  unearned  bliss 

Bereft  of  heartache  where  no  sorrow  nears, 
But  rather  rugged  trouble  for  a  mate 

To  mold  your  soul  against  the  coming  blight, 
To  train  you  for  the  ruthless  whip  of  fate 

And  build  your  heart  up  for  the  bitter  fight. 

If  I  may  call  you   friend,  I  wish  you  more — 
A  rare  philosophy  no  man  may  fake, 

To  put  the  game  itself  beyond  the  score 
And  take  the  tide  of  life  as  it  may  break; 


74  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

To  know  the  struggle  that  a  man  should  know 
Before  he  comes  through  with  the  winning  hit, 

And,  though  you  slip  before  the  charging  foe, 
To  love  the  game  too  well  to  ever  quit. 

If  I  may  call  you  friend,  I  wish  this,  too, 

As  you  grope  blindly  out  the  narrow  beat, 
That  you  may  have  one  old-time  dream  come  true, 

Which  is  one  more  than  most  men  ever  meet; 
That  you  will  hold  this  as  a  worthy  prize 

For  all  the  traps  with  which  the  course  was 

lined, 
Not  scorning  it  with  too  ambitious  eyes 

That  look  for  something  you  can  never  find. 

ON    TO   THE    END 
The  path  is  closed  across  the  years 

That  lead  again  to  April's  day; 
The  trail  is  shadowed  by  life's  tears 

Where  Youth  and  Spring  have  passed  away ; 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  75 

And  only  Winter  now  remains 

Of  phantom  dream  and  vanished   friend, 
But  on  across  its  barren  plains 

I  hold  my  course  unto  the  end. 

Well  may  the  April  stalwart  boast 

Whose  road  still  lies  by  May  and  June; 
Writh  no  dream  yet  turned  to  a  ghost — 

Where  yet  Ambition  pipes  her  tune ; 
W'here  Life  and  Love  yet  have  a  song, 

Where  cheering  voices  call  afar, 
And  where  the  winding  way  along 

No  storm-blown  shades  of  darkness  bar. 

Well  may  he  sing  his  battle  hymn, 
Beyond  the  April  fields  of  Youth; 

Well  may  he  face  the  future  dim 

Who  yet,  some  day,  must  face  the  Truth; 

Well  may  he  keep  the  road  that  leads 
Unto  the  goal  that  he  has  set, 


76  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Who,  from  the  tangled  codes  and  creeds, 
May  still  remember — or  forget. 

But  I  have  come  across  the  years 

To  stand  beneath  a  Winter  sky; 
Behind  me,  through  the  blur  of  tears, 

The  dim,  far  fields  of  April  lie; 
The  Winter  snow  upon  my  head 

Has  fallen  now — sans  dream  or  friend — 
But  through  the  storms  or  shadows  sped 

I  hold  my  course  unto  the  end. 

THE   LAST   OF   ALL 

"Cowards  die  many  times  before  their  deaths; 
The  valiant  never  taste  of  death  but  once'' 

—SHAKESPEARE. 

Whether   it's    Heaven — or   whether   it's    Hell — 

Or  whether  it's  merely  Sleep ; 
Or  whether  it's  something  in  between 

Where  ghosts  of  the  half -gods  creep — 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  77 

Since  it  comes  but  once — and  it  comes  to  all— 

On  the  one  fixed,  certain  date — 
Why  drink  of  the  dregs  till  the  Cup  arrives 

On  the  gray  day  set  by  Fate? 

One  by  one  till  the  line  has  passed — 

The  gutter-born — and  the  crown ; 
So  what  is  a  day — or  a  year  or  two — 

Since  the  answer's  written  down? 
What  is  a  day  to  a  million  years 

When  the  last  winds  sound  their  call? 
So  here's  to  the  days  that  rest  between — 

And  here's  to  the  last  of  all ! 

ON    DOWN    THE   ROAD 

Hold  to  the  course,  though  the  storms  are  about 
you; 

Stick  to  the  road  where  the  banner  still  flies  ; 
Fate  and  his  legions  are  ready  to  rout  you — 

Give  'em  both  barrels — and  aim  for  their  eyes. 


78  SONGS    OF   THE    STALWART 

Life's  not  a  rose  bed,  a  dream  or  a  bubble, 

A  living  in  clover  beneath  cloudless  skies; 
And    Fate    hates    a    fighter    who's    looking    for 

trouble, 

So  give  'im  both  barrels — and  shoot  for  the 
eyes. 

Fame  never  comes  to  the  loafers  and  sitters, 
Life's  full  of  knots  in  a  shifting  disguise; 

Fate  only  picks  on  the  cowards  and  quitters, 
So  give  'im  both  barrels — and  aim  for  the  eyes. 

THE   HOUR   HAND 

"What  time  is  it?" 

It's  time  to  move 
From  out  the  stolid-bordered  frame; 

It's  time  to  rustle  from  the  groove 
And  beat  it  back  into  the  game ; 

It's  time  to  edge  in  with  a  start 
That's  just  a  trifle  more  than  bluff, 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  79 

And,  whatsoever  be  the  part, 
To  give  the  game  your  keenest  stuff. 

"What  time  is  it?" 

It's  time  to  fight; 
To  rally  up  the  hosts  of  cheer, 

And,  in  the  face  of  bitter  night, 
To  wipe  away  the  useless  tear. 

It's  time  to  meet  the  foe  called  Fate 
With   valiant  heart  and  head  held  high, 

And  whatsoever  score  may  wait, 
It's  time  to  can  the  alibi. 

"What  time  is  it?" 

It's  time  to  be 
Out  there  among  the  battling  throng; 

It's  time  to  set  your  honor  free 
From  any  taint  of  shame  or  wrong ; 

It's  time  to  be  upon  the  square, 
And,  when  you've  cut  in  with  your  best, 


80  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

You'll  find,  out  in  the  far  Somewhere, 
It's  time  enough  to  take  your  rest. 

THE   BRAVER   WAY 

Behind  us  rest  the  drifting  years 

Of  soft  content — and  fame; 
For  we  now  take  the  way  of  those 

Who  play  the  braver  game; 
Who  drive  head-on  against  red  Fate, 

Along  the  storm-swept  shore ; 
Who  drive,  red-hearted,  down  the  field, 

Regardless  of  the  score. 

Behind  us  wait  old-fashioned  ways, 

The  lilac  time  of  life, 
When  all  we  knew  were  purple  drifts 

Beyond  the  sweep  of  strife; 
But  we  have  found  the  answer  now 

Among  the  waiting  brave, 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  8l 

Who  only  know  the  final  goals 
Of  glory — or  the  grave. 

And  Love  shall  meet  us  with  a  rose, 

And  necklacing  our  dreams, 
Soft  arms  shall  seek  to  hold  us  back 

Along  the  singing  streams; 
And  Failure's  legions  sweep  our  lines 

From  front  and  flank  and  rear 
Through  sunless  days  of  bitterness — 

Through  starless  nights  of  fear. 

And  we  shall  mark  our  trail  beyond 

The  dreams  that  we  have  lost, 
Where  we  shall  hold  the  open  road 

Nor  count  the  bitter  cost ; 
Content  to  know  when  each  stark  soul 

Has  passed  the  outpost  stars, 
The  Scorer  counts  no  medals  there — 

He  only  counts  the  scars. 


WHATEVER   ODDS    THERE   ARE 

Give  me  but  room  to  fight  my  way, 
I  ask  no  other  gift  from  Fate; 

Though  it  should  crowd  on  me  at  bay, 
Where  only  ghosts  and  shadows  wait. 

Shadows  of  old  defeats  blown  by, 

Ghosts  of  old  dreams  drawn  from  life's  pit ; 
Yet  all  I  ask  is  room  to  try 

And  prove  Fate  cannot  make  me  quit. 

No  glint  of  glory  from  the  height, 
No  flare  of  fame  to  call  me  far; 

Merely  the  ground  to  make  my  fight 
Against  whatever  odds  there  are. 

AS    FOR    SERVICE    RENDERED 

To  look  Fate  in  the  face, 

However  grim  and  dark — 
To  take  the  game's  worst  break, 

And  hold  the  vital  spark — 
82 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  83 

To  throw  soft  flesh  aside, 

Where  Trouble  rules  the   fray, 
Nor  make  one  lone  complaint 
Along  the  harder  way — 

Can  you,  who've  drifted  long, 

Be  ready  at  the  call 
To  swim  upstream  again, 

Whatever  may  befall? 
For  service  also  means 

The  courage  to  endure, 
Where   those   who   come   through   fire 
Shall  find  the  only  cure. 

THE  TOP  O'  THE  WORLD 
(Upon  the  discovery  of  the  North  Pole.) 

In  the  land  where  the  Four  Winds  start  their 
march  out  the  trail  of  a  lonesome  beat — 

Where  the  gray  sun  wheels  in  a  six  months'  day 
and  the  dawn  and  the  twilight  meet — 


84  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Where  the  Great  Nail  drives  to  the  Southern 
Pole — to  the  storms  and  the  stars  unfurled — 

The  Star  Spangled  Banner  waves  at  last  from  its 
staff  at  the  Top  o'  the  World ! 

!A  shadow  falls  on  the  Arctic  snows — and  a  rip 
pling  roll  of  red 

Reels  out  to  the  nearest  world  beyond  the  tale  of 
the  ages  sped; 

With  only  the  stars  of  God  above  that  gleam  on 
a  crest  empearled — 

At  the  End  of  Things,  Old  Glory  waits  at  last 
from  the  Top  o'  the  World ! 

The  Gray  Winds  swerve  in  a  startled  sweep  from 
the  path  where  the  way  lay  clear 

Since  the  first  faint  breeze  crept  forth  from  Time 
on  the  trail  of  a  Phantom  Sphere; 

From  the  whip  and  flap  of  a  Flag  high-flown — 
to  the  storms  and  the  stars  unfurled — 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  85 

Where  the  Stars  and  Stripes  in  their  place  at  last 
are  set  at  the  Top  o'  the  World ! 

At  the  Top  o'  the  Wrorld !     From  the  curve  that 

bends  to  the  land  of  the  Southern  Cross — 
By  the  white  bleached  bones  of  the  brave  that 

died — by  the  land  where  the  palm  trees  toss — 
Over  the  wind  and  the  rain  and  the  sea — borne 

through  the  midnight  gate — 
Under  the  Great  \Vhite  Throne  of  God— the  Stars 

and  the  Stripes  await! 

BALLAD    OF   THE    BRAVE 

We  have  loved — but  we  have  lost — 

We  have   fought — but  we  have  failed; 
We  have  paid  the  bitter  cost, 

Yet  our  hearts  have  never  quailed ; 
We  have  fallen  in  the  fray 

Through  the  sweep  of  countless  suns, 
Yet  we've  risen — and  today 

We  are  standing  to  the  guns! 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

We  have  dreamed  throughout  the  night — 

Not  of  glory  without  end, 
But  the  whirlwind  of  the  fight 

Which  the  coming  day  would  send; 
We  were  tempted — and  we  fell 

To  the  bitter  depths — and  then 
From  the  very  maw  of  hell 

We  have  struggled  back  again. 


THE  ANSWER 

When   the  battle  breaks  against   you   and  the 

crowd  forgets  to  cheer 
When  the  Anvil  Chorus  echoes  with  the  essence 

of  a  jeer ; 
When  the  knockers  start  their  panning  in  the 

knocker's  nimble  way 
With  a  rap  for  all  your  errors  and  a  josh  upon 

your  play — 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  87 

There  is  one  quick  answer  ready  that  will  nail 

them  on  the  wing; 
There  is  one  reply  forthcoming  that  will  wipe 

away  the  sting ; 
There  is  one  elastic  come-back  that  will  hold 

them,  as  it  should — 
Make  good. 

No  matter  where  you  finish  in  the  mix-up  or  the 

row, 
There  are  those  among  the  rabble  who  will  pan 

you  anyhow ; 
But  the  entry  who  is  sticking  and  delivering  the 

stuff 
Can  listen  to  the  yapping  as  he  giggles  up  his 

cuff; 
The  loafer  has  no  come-back  and  the  quitter  no 

reply 
When    the    Anvil    Chorus    echoes,    as    it    will, 

against  the  sky ; 


88  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

But  there's  one   quick  answer  ready  that  will 

wrap  them  in  a  hood — - 
Make  good. 


WHEN   THUMBS   ARE   DOWN 

You'll  find  that  most  of  them  around 

Would  rather  knock  than  boost; 
You'll  find  the  poisoned  barbs  come  thick 

The  higher  that  you  roost ; 
But  you  can  gather  in  this  balm 

And  cherish  it  as  such — 
They  rarely  ever  pan  a  man 

Who  doesn't  matter  much. 

You'll  find  the  Anvil  Chorus  rules 

The  bulk  of  any  map ; 
You'll  find  that  very  few  of  them 

Pass  up  a  chance  to  rap; 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

But  you  can  take  this  to  your  soul 

And  let  it  dally  there, 
They  very  rarely  pan  a  man 

Who  doesn't  get  somewhere. 

You'll  find  the  game  is  quite  inclined 

To  kick  in  with  the  barb, 
No  matter  what  the 'line-up  is, 

No  matter  what  the  garb ; 
But  you  can  also  figure  this 

And  let  the  tiding  spread, 
They  rarely  ever  rap  a  guy 

Who  never  shows  his  head. 

THE  WAY  OF  THE  WINNING  TRIBE 

You  know,  of  course,  how  honor  comes — 
How  glory  lasts,  for  tribe  or  man ; 

And  not  by  adding  up  the  sums 
To  cover  any  golden  span ; 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Nor  yet  by  padding  out  the  fat 
Of  bulging  waist  and  burly  neck, 

Nor  reaching  soft  contentment  that 
Must  turn  all  fiber  to  a  wreck. 

For  honor  comes  and  glory  lasts 

Through  Service  to  the  Vital  Cause — 
Through  Service — as  it  boldly  casts 

Its  plea  beyond  all  other  laws ; 
Through  harder  training  for  the  test 

As  any  man,  or  nation,  should, 
With  soul  enough  to  give  its  best, 

And  give  it  for  the  common  good. 

The  goal  waits — not  so  far  away — 
For  those  who  pay  the  price  to  win, 

Who  throw  their  souls  into  the  fray 
And  stick,  until  the  score  is  in ; 

For  those  who  fear  to  meet  the  bill 
Where  service,  pain  and  life  are  one, 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  91 

The  road  is  open  to  them  still 
From  Nineveh  to  Babylon. 

THE  YEAR  BEYOND 

We've  skidded  along  and  we've  stalled  and  quit ; 

We  have  bungled  the  job — and  have  called  it 

Fate; 
We've  made  ten  errors  to  each  clean  hit 

As  Old  Doc  Time  kept  cutting  the  plate; 
With  the  goal  ahead  we  have  looked  behind 

Or  piked  along  with  but  half  a  heart ; 
We've  lost  the  track  where  we  charged  in  blind, 

But — here's  a  chance  for  another  start. 

We've  got  our  bumps  where  it  hurt  the  most 
As  we  dug  for  the  Grand  Old  Alibi ; 

Or  we've  charged  head  down  through  the  brok 
en  host 
With  never  a  turn  for  an  old  pal's  cry; 


92  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

We've  floundered  through  many  a  boggy  stew 
But  Old  Doc  Tempus  has  done  his  part, 

He  has  slipped  us  a  leaf  that  is  clean  and  new, 
So  here's  a  chance  for  another  start. 


SONGS  OF  THE  OFF-TRAIL 


SOMEWHERE   OUT 

Somewhere  out 

From  the  toil  and  grind, 
Somewhere  out 

Where  the  road  is  kind; 
Somewhere  out 

Where  green  trails  wait 
For  weary  feet 

Through  the  city's  gate  ; 
From  the  snarl  and  tangle 

In  marts  of  trade 
To  the  peace  of  God 

In  the  open  shade; 
Through  the  purple  dusk — 

Through  the  silver  dew, 
Where  the  rose-sweet  dreams 

Of  the  years  come  true. 
95 


96  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Somewhere  out — 

And  we  who  drive 
The  soul  and  heart 

Through  the  city's  hive, 
Where  life  is  bound 

In  the  city  walls 
Have  little  care 

Where  the  Red  Road  calls— 
Or  little  choice 

Where  the  trail  may  wait 
So  that  it  leads 

From  the  city's  gate; 
To  the  sea-girt  east 

Or  the  northern  snows; 
To  the  sunlit  west 

Or  the  southern  rose. 

Somewhere  out 
From  the  grip  of  greed — 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  97 

Somewhere  out 

As  the  road  may  lead; 
Out  where  the  winds 

Of  the  world  may  drift 
As  the  burdens  fall 

And  the  shadows  lift; 
Wherever  the  peace 

Of  God  may  wait 
And  love  shall  come 

To  the  Twilight  Gate ; 
Through  the  purple  dusk — 

Through  the  silver  dew, 
Where  the  rose-sweet  dreams 

Of  the  years  come  true. 

CHRISTMAS  ON  THE  OFF-TRAIL. 

We  thought  we  had  forgotten  all  the  years  that 

lie  behind  us ; 

And  though  the  vision  beckons  through  the 
years  that  wait  ahead, 


98  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

The  white  and  scarlet  berries  of  the  season  still 

remind  us 

That  dreams  were  merely  sleeping  which  we 
thought  forever  dead. 

For,  vagabonds,  it's  Christmas, 

And  the  clans  are  congregating ; 

O,  vagabonds,  it's  Christmas, 

And  we've  come  so  far  away ; 

And  in  the  lonesome  shadows 

They  are  waiting,  waiting,  waiting 

For  those  who've  lost  the  road  that  leads 

To  Home  and  Christmas  Day. 

We  met  our  mate,  the  tramping  wind,  and  so  we 

let  it  lead  us 
From  one  with  rose-blood  in  her  veins  and 

sunshine  in  her  hair  ; 

It   called  us   from  a  mother  who  we  thought 
would  never  need  us 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  99 

Until  the  gray  December  winds  brought  in 
her  silent  prayer. 

For  Christmas  on  the  Off-trail 
Isn't  what  we  used  to  think  it; 
The  little  horns  are  calling 
With  the  roll-beat  of  the  drum ; 
And  as  we  lift  our  mocking  toast 
And  sullenly  we  drink  it, 
A  kid  calls  "Mother—mother"— 
And  we  know  how  far  we've  come. 

Gray  ghosts  across  the  drifting  years,  they  come 

upon  our  dreaming, 
The  kids  we  used  to  know  before  we  knew  the 

rover's  fate, 
The  little  stockings  by  the  hearth,  the  mother 

love  a-streaming 

From  weary  eyes  that  look  in  vain  beyond  an 
old-time  gate. 


100  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWARt 

O,  vagabonds,  tomorrow 

We  will  start  with  rag  and  pack  again ; 

And  leave  a  merry  song  behind 

Without  a  parting  word ; 

But  now  we'd  give  our  souls  to  know 

The  Christmas  highway  back  again, 

To  whisper  "Mother — mother" — 

And  to  know  that  she  had  heard. 

WITH   THE  TRAMPING  WINDS 

"To  meet  my  mate,  the  wind,  that  tramps  the 

world." 

— KIPLING. 

You  and  I  and  the  rest  of  us, 

Who  are  driftwood  down  the  world — 

Who  are  merely  mates  to  the  tramping  wind 
As  the  drifting  breeze  is  whirled — 

We,  too,  have  dreams  as  the  dusk  comes  on 
And  our  weary  mate  dies  down, 

i 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  IOI 

But  it  isn't  a  dream  of  name  or  fame 
We  missed  in  the  dreary  town. 

We  know,  gaunt  tramps  of  the  passing  years, 

What  the  dusk  dream  is  that  calls, 
And  it  isn't  of  glory  we  have  missed 

Far  off  in  the  city  walls  ; 
But  the  old,  old  dream  of  sun-spun  hair 

And  eyes  of  the  violet  stain, 
And  a  pair  of  lips  with  the  crimson  glow 

Of  the  rosebud  rinsed  in  rain. 

We  might  have  fought  and  we  might  have  won, 

But  that  isn't  here  or  there; 
We  might  have  stayed  till  the  laurel  came, 

But  that  isn't  worth  a  care ; 
But  vagabonds  at  the  edge  of  dusk, 

We  know  what  we've  come  to  miss 
When  ghosts  of  children  that  might  have  been 

Come  for  their  good-night  kiss. 


A   VOICE   FROM   THE   DUSK 

Here's   another   one   on — yes,   another   Thank- 
giving, 

For  those  of  us  lucky  enough  to  be  living, 
So  let  us  get  maudlin,  as  vagabonds  will, 
Who  are  long  on  self-pity  and  hitting  the  pill, 
Or  pulling  old  dreams  that  are  all  out  of  rhyme, 
Forgotten,  long-vanished,  or  dusty  with  Time. 

Old  dreams  from  the  years  that  are  now  dim, 

undated, 
Of  home — and  a  mother — and  some  one  who 

waited 

To  greet  our  return  from  the  laurel-grown  track, 
But  who  waited  in  vain,  for  we  lost  the  way 

back, 
Or,  enmeshed  in  the  game  with  the  hands  dealt 

by  Fate, 
The  clock  struck  again — and  we  found  it  too 

late. 

1 02 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  I<>3 

Thanksgiving — well,  even  a  hapless  tailender 

Should  have  at  least  something  of  thanks  he  can 
render, 

And  though  off  the  trail  that  we  once  hoped  to 
know, 

We  might  have  been  under  it — six  feet  or  so ; 

So  here  in  the  light  where  the  phantoms  dis 
perse, 

Here's  looking — and  thanks — that  it  wasn't  all 
worse. 

THE    LAST    INN 

You   have   come  to   the   end   of   the   highway, 

Traveler, 

Here  where  the  Last  Inn  waits ; 
You  have  turned  at  last  from  the  byway,  Trav 
eler, 

In  through  the  Twilight  Gates  ; 
And  we  who  know  where  your  way  has  led 
Shall  drink  tonight  where  the  wine  runs  red 


104  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

To  one  who  has  only  gone  ahead 
Through  lines  of  the  phantom  fates. 

You  have  come  to  the  end  ol  the  Long  Road, 
Traveler, 

Here  where  the  stars  gleam  pale ; 
And  there's  never  a  chance  it's  the  wrong  road, 
Traveler, 

Winding  beyond  the  vale ; 
So  we  shout  to  you,  where  the  many  weep, 

"Good  luck  to  you  where  the  shadows  creep, 
Godspeed  to  you  where  the  dreams  are  deep — 

Till  we,  too,  come  to  the  trail." 

WHEN  APRIL  CALLS 

Now  that  Young  April's  back  again 
Where  Spring  has  melted  out  the  snow, 

Why  should  we  dally  longer  here 
Who  have  so  far  to  go? 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  105 

Why  should  we  dally  longer  now 

To  find  where  deeper  pleasures  dwell? 

Since  life  can  show  but  these  two  things — 
A  hail  and  a  farewell. 

ALONG  A  FRIENDLY  ROAD 

Driftwood,  dreamer,  vagabond, 

And  all  your  motley  crew, 
I  hereby  yield  my  humble  gift 

To  all  the  drift  of  you — 
The  friendly  hail,  the  grip  of  hand, 

That  frame  the  rover's  code, 
And  all  the  luck  a  tramp  might  have 

Along  a  friendly  road. 

And  if  by  chance  there  comes  a  time 

When  you  might  wish  for  me 
A  proper  share  of  pleasant  fate 

Across  the  years  to  be — 


106  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

What  is  there  more  to  ask  than  this, 

Within  this  brief  abode, 
A  pal  or  two — a  dream  or  two — 

Along  a  friendly  road? 

THE   VAGABOND    SPEAKS 

No  foot  of  soil  on  this  wide  earth  I  own ; 

No   hearthside    calls    me   through    the    drifting 

years ; 

No  town,  no  state,  no  borderland  may  bring 
Gray  ghosts  of  dreams  back  to  the  living  glow; 
And  yet  I  know  the  whole,  wide  world  is  mine — 
The  fields,  the  trees,  the  rivers  and  the  sky, 
And  each  far  haunt  to  which  my  restless  feet 
Shall  lead,  if  only  for  the  night,  is  home. 

There  is  no  wealth  to  which  I  may  lay  claim; 
No  gold  nor  silver  which  the  world  holds  dear ; 
And  yet  I  hold  the  yellow  gold  which  gleams 
From  summer's  sunlight  and  the  winter  moon, 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  I°7 

From   each  far   star   that  lights   my  outbound 

way ; 

And  all  the  silver  of  the  dew  is  mine 
In  violet  vales  and  valleys  of  the  dawn 
Through  which   I   wander  with  the  ghosts   of 

dreams. 

There  is  no  kith  nor  kin  nor  human  kind 
To  wonder  when  I  come  their  way  again. 
Yet  I  am  brother  to  the  wandering  winds, 
And  soul-kin  to  the  roving  rains  that  come 
In  slanting  aisles  to  seek  me  from  the  hills ; 
Gray  dusks  of  starlight  and  of  sudden  storms 
Are  friends  enough  when  one  has  come  to  rest 
Before  tomorrow  beckons  further  on. 

THANKSGIVING  FROM  THE  ROAD 

Thanksgiving   day !      At   countless    boards    the 
home  clan  gathers  face  to  face ; 


108  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

The  circle  forms  and  clan  to  clan  they  pledge 

the  kinship  of  the  race ; 
So  on  the  Off-trail  you  and  I,  old  dog,  shall  lift 

our  glasses  high — : 

To  the  Trail  that  follows  an  alien  track — 
To  the  Trail  that  never  will  carry  us  back; 
And  then  to  dream,  when  the  dusk  grows  black, 

a  dream  that  will  never  die. 

Thanksgiving  day!    Well,  we,  too,  knew  what 

-home  meant  in  the  years  that  were ; 
What  home — as  if  it  matters  here  where  alien 

shadows  drift  and  blur — 
So  on  the  Off-trail,  man  to  man,  we'll  still  pledge 

with  a  smiling  eye 

The  Trail  that  beckoned  us  with  its  plea 
From  home  and  those  we  shall  never  see, 
And  then  to  dream,  as  it  used  to  be,  a  dream 

that  will  never  die. 


"MIGHT    HAVE    BEEN" 

Here's  to  "The  days  that  might  have  been" ; 

Here's  to  "The  life  I  might  have  led" ; 
The  fame  I  might  have  gathered  in — 

The  glory  ways  I  might  have  sped. 
Great  "Might  Have  Been,"  I  drink  to  you 

Upon  a  throne  where  thousands  hail — 
And  then — there  looms  another  view — 

I  also  "might  have  been"  in  jail. 

O  "Land  of  Might  Have  Been,"  we  turn 
With  aching  hearts  to  where  you  wait; 

Where  crimson  fires  of  glory  burn, 
And  laurel  crowns  the  guarding  gate; 

We  may  not  see  across  your  fields 

The  sightless  skulls  that  knew  their  woe — 

The  broken  spears — the  shattered  shields — 

That  "might  have  been"  as  truly  so. 
109 


HO  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

"Of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen" — 

So  wails  the  poet  in  his  pain — 
The  saddest  are,  "It  might  have  been," 

And  world-wide  runs  the  dull  refrain. 
The  saddest?    Yes — but  in  the  jar 

This  thought  brings  to  me  with  its  curse, 
I  sometimes  think  the  gladdest  are 

"It  might  have  been  a  blamed  sight  worse." 


WITH  RAG  AND  PACK 

They   have   gripped    us — you    and    me — in    the 

sweat  heap  of  the  throng; 
They  have  chained  us  to  the  job — and  we  may 

not  break  away ; 
And  we  may  not  follow  now  where  the  red  road 

winds  along 

Through  the  sun  and  wind  and  rain  to  the 
edge  of  night  and  day. 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  1 1 1 

They   have  gripped   us — you  and  me — but  our 

dreams  have  snapped  the  chains, 
And  with  rag  and  pack  have  left  by  the  still 

uncharted  trails 
Through  the  starlight  and  the  storms — by  the 

mountain  peaks  and  plains, 
Where  the  seventh  sea  unrolls  to  a  thousand 
gleaming  sails. 

They  may  look  on  us  as  slaves  or  as  captives  of 

the  town, 
But  we'll  laugh  them  back  in  scorn,  though 

our  weary  bodies  bend, 

As  our  free  souls  range  the  hills  where  the  tor 
rents  hurtle  down 

And  we  take  an  untrod  path  by  a  road  that 
knows  no  end. 

We  are  off  to  come  no  more  where  our  weary 
bodies  wait, 


112  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Through  the  grasses   and  the  woods  by  an 

ever-singing  stream, 
Through  the  wind  and  sun  and  rain  on  beyond 

the  city's  gate, 

Drifting  vagabonds  at  home  in  the  Romany  of 
dream. 

O,   YOU   ROMANY! 

Slip  me  the  rag  and  pack, 

The  world-wide,  open  track, 

The  trail  that  leads  from  dawn  to  dusk  across 

the  heart  of  life; 
Only  a  song  to  sing 
In  light  heart  wandering 
By  vale  and  hill  and  mountainside  beyond  the 

endless  strife. 

Where  is  the  heart  to  stay 
When  the  west  wind  calls  "Away"— 
When  the  east  wind  and  the  north  wind  and  the 
south  wind  in  refrain 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  H3 

Plead  in  the  early  light — 
Call  through  the  gloom  of  night 
Of  byways  and  of  highways  through  the  sun 
shine  and  the  rain? 

No  one  to  wonder  when 

I  come  this  way  again. 

No  one  to  watch  and  wait  for  me  when  I  have 

passed  beyond; 
No  weary  tears  to  shed 
Because  some  dream  is  dead 
Where  every  dawn  shall  send  its  dream  to  every 

vagabond. 

Where  dull  care  leaves  the  mind 
Free  from  the  sudden  grind, 
Free  as  the  drifting  winds  that  romp  by  heather 

and  by  foam, 

\Vhile  no  set  lamp  shall  burn 
To  wait  for  my  return, 
Yet  each  far  strand  I  touch  upon  shall  be  the 

Port  of  Home. 


SPRING   ON   THE   OFF-TRAIL 

Come  on,  you  vagabonds,  and  follow  down  the 

way, 
The  red  road  that's  leading  to  the  crimson  heart 

of  May; 
And  little  we'll  be  caring  if  it's  winter  or  it's 

spring 
As  long  as  we  can  meet  a  pal  or  find  a  song  to 

sing. 

Come  on,  you  driftwood,  and  toss  aside  your 
load, 

Here's  the  Gate  to  Spring  again  and  here's  the 
Open  Road; 

And  never  mind  the  rest  of  it — the  blossom-bor 
dered  thrills, 

Where  we  can  find  a  friendly  hail  that  echoes 

from  the  hills. 

114 


SONGS  OF  THE  GAME 


TWO  OUT— AND  THE  BASES  FULL— 

Two  out — and  the  bases  full — 

Three  runs  to  win  and  two  to  tie ; 
And  then,  amid  the  boding  lull, 

Looms  Jackson  of  the  Batting  Eye ; 
I  watch  the  pitcher  writhe  and  whirl 

And  shoot  one  from  his  mounded  pen — 
I  see  the  white  pill  dart  and  curl 

As  Jackson's  bludgeon  swings — and  then — 

In  that  one  moment  through  the  stands 

There  runs — before  the  groans  and  cheers — 

The  taut  grip  of  ten  thousand  hands — 
The  pulse  leap  of  a  thousand  years; 

The  one  great  throbbing  human  call 
Above  all  science,  war,  or  love, 

As  crashing  bat  meets  speeding  ball 

Or  speeding  ball  meets  waiting  glove. 
117 


Il8  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Here  end  the  sorrows  of  the  race — 

All  want  and  wretchedness  and  crime; 
Where  care  must  seek  another  place, 

Where  sin  must  hide  another  time ; 
Here  where  the  heart's  wiped  clean  and  dry- 

The  drudge  soul  lifted  from  the  pit 
For  those  who  wait  for  the  reply — 

A  Strike-out — or  a  Two-base  Hit? 

WEAK  WILLED 

When  the  Sun,  the  Wind  and  the  Rain 

Call  me  out  to  the  moors — 
Beckon  to  hill  and  to  plain 

And  the  lure  of  the  Great  Out  Doors — 

When  they  speak  of  the  Open  Sky — 
Of  a  Swing — and  a  Follow  Through — 

And  the  blue  Hills  echo  the  cry — 
What  else  can  a  poor  man  do? 


FROM  THE  GAME 

Since  I  have  seen  the  greatest  fade 

The  game  has  ever  known ; 
Since  I  have  watched  the  stars  who  played 

Drop  out — and  walk  alone — 
The  game  at  least  has  taught  me  this, 

From  birth  across  to  death, 
That  headlines  are  a  fleeting  bliss 

And  fame  is  but  a  breath. 

A  star  renowned  ties  up  the  score, 

Amid  the  frenzied  calls, 
But  when  you  look  for  him  once  more 

He's  back  with  Cedar  Falls ; 
But  yesterday  he  ruled  the  field 

And  held  the  rooters'  trust ; 
Tomorrow  on  the  record  shield 

His  name  will  be  in  dust. 
119 


120  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

The  game  will  teach  you  quite  a  bit, 

If  you  should  care  to  learn, 
How  brief  the  space  from  peak  to  pit 

When  one  has  reached  the  turn ; 
And  all  the  shifting  seasons  through 

You'll  find  amid  the  plot, 
How  soon  a  Chance  can  fade  from  view, 

A  Walsh  can  be  forgot. 


AT   SPORT'S    FRONTIER 

Let  those  who  will  seek  out  below  the  crowded 

ways  of  earth, 
The  narrow  road — the  trodden  trail  around  the 

circle's  girth; 
Poor  vagabonds  who  wander  far  the  beaten  path 

along 
To  find  the  peace  of  solitude  among  the  jostling 

throng ; 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  121 

Where'er  they  go — where  they  may  be, 
By  mead  or  hill  or  open  sea, 
The  path  is  crossed — and  out  their  day 
The  legion  crowds  them  from  the  way 
And  holds  them  to  the  last — at  bay. 

But  we,  who  seek  .the  road  above,  have  found 
the  Open  Lane ; 

One  with  the  wander  winds  of  dawn — the  drift 
ing  sun  and  rain ; 

Our  course  is  where  the  red  stars  call  and  where 
the  wild  birds  fly, 

The  only  barrier  we  know  is  rimmed  against  the 
sky; 

Where'er  we  go  by  dusk  or  dawn 

The  open  highway  calls  us  on, 

The  trail  is  clear — and  out  through  space 

We  meet  the  sunset  face  to  face, 

And  know  the  Twilight's  resting  place. 


122  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

The  cities  fade  within  the  mist — a  blur  against 
the  plain, 

Where  air  guns  wait  for  us  below  to  seek  for 
us  in  vain; 

And  then,  above  the  rolling  clouds,  where  death 
comes  riding  by, 

We  meet  our  rival  face  to  face  against  the  end 
less  sky; 

The  rifle  speaks — the  bullet  sings 

Its  song  of  hate  through  mighty  wings; 

And  then  we  see  him  lurch  and  reel 

And  flutter  like  a  wounded  teal, 

To  dip  and  vanish  head  and  heel. 

THE   UNIVERSAL   BOAST 
I've  heard  the  boast  of  the  cities — 

The  boast  of  hamlet  and  town ; 
The  chant  of  their  civic  virtues 

Deserving  the  olive  crown ; 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  123 

Some  for  their  manufactures — 

Others  for  this  or  that, 
From  New  York  over  to  Denver, 

From  Boston  to  Medicine  Hat. 

I've  heard  the  boast  of  the  cities, 

But  over  the  ringing  call 
One  alone  from  the  many 

Echoes  over  them  all ; 
Out  of  the  medley  chorus 

Hark  to  the  central  theme — 
"THIS  IS  A  WONDERFUL  BALL  TOWN 
-IF 

THEY'LL  GIVE  US  A  WINNING  TEAM." 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  AGE 

"Get  in  the  Game"— so  runs  the  call 

Along  the  line  of  play, 
When  seasoned  ash  meets  speeding  ball 
To  drive  it  on  the  way ; 


124  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Where  base  hits  echo  out  the  scene 

Athwart  the  winning  run — 
Where  flying  spikes  cut  through  the  green 

Which  glistens  in  the  sun. 

"Get  in  the  Game"— so  runs  the  cry 

Across  the  nation's  sweep; 
Where  flags  are  tossed  against  the  sky 

And  silent  shadows  creep ; 
Where  camp  lights  flicker  in  their  glow 

And  pickets  pass  the  sign — 
To  face  whatever  Fate  may  throw 
Against  the  forming  line. 

"Get  in  the  Game"— the  old,  old  call 

Has  caught  a  newer  note; 
But  still  the  ancient  echoes  fall 

By  mountain  and  by  moat ; 
Where  life  is  something  more  than  dreams 

And  softer  days  have  gone 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  125 

Before  the  greater  day  that  gleams 
Against  a  redder  dawn. 

"Get  in  the  Game" — the  echo  lifts 

Beyond  the  grip  of  fate, 
And  farther  still  the  slogan  drifts 

To  where  the  legions  wait ; 
The  ancient  slogan  of  the  clan, 

Where  those  have  met  before 
To  fill  the  line  up,  man  by  man, 

And  find  the  winning  score. 

TO  JOHN  HENRY  WAGNER 

(Upon  the  Occasion  of  His  Forty-third 
Birthday.) 

I 

Gee — 

But  I'd  like  to  be 

A  kid  like  you,  at  forty-three — 

Wrinkled,  perhaps,  and  somewhat  gray, 


126  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

But  still  a  kid— a  kid  at  heart— 

A  player  on  the  field  of  play, 

Waiting  another  season's  start — 

Waiting  still  for  the  bell  to  ring — 

At   forty-three— Oh,   gee— 

For  spring — an  old-time  spring — 

Not  of  the  spring  the  poets  sing — 

The  spring  of  roses  and  old  dreams — 

But,  rather,  of  the  Crash  and  Bing, 

Of  two-base  hits  and  winning  teams — 

The  ancient  roar 

That  echoes  in  a  jubilee 

When  your  long  triple  ties  the  score, 

At  forty-three. 

II 

Oh,  boy— 

If  I  could  only  know  the  joy 
At  forty-three, 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Of  waiting  for  a  spring  like  that, 
To  take  my  place  out  in  the  game — 
With  spike  and  glove,  with  ball  and  bat, 
While  thirty  thousand  cheered  by  name — 
To  look  Age  in  the  face — and  grin 
The  while  I  held  Youth  by  the  hand- 
To  play  the  game  out — lose  or  win — 
As  only  you  can  understand — 
You,  who  still  romp  amid  the  clan 
Of  those  unborn  when  you  began. 

Ill 

At  forty-three 

I  know  where  most  of  us  will  be — 
Gouty  and  old — or  fat  and  slow — 
Dressed  up,  without  a  place  to  go 
Along  the  royal  road  of  play 
In  games  that  hold  a  nation's  sway; 
But  you,  still  in  the  morning's  sun, 
Have  only  started — just  begun — 


128  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

You  who,  amid  the  long  parade, 

Saw  Matty  start  and  shine  and  fade — 

Saw  Waddell,  Walsh  and  Chance  and  Brown 

Rise  up — make  good — and  then  drop  down, 

Forgotten  in  each  fickle  town, 

While  you — 

Well,  back  at  forty-two, 

No  pitchers  cheered  the  season  through 

When  you  came  hulking  into  view. 

IV 

Some  game — we  know — 

But  you,  who've  seen  them  come  and  go, 

Know  how  soon  Youth  runs  into  Age, 

As,  one  by  one,  the  old  Bush  calls, 

As  great  names  leave  the  Sporting  Page 

And  even  mighty  Larry  falls, 

But  you,  alone, 

Cling  to  the  throne, 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Not  caring  that  the  hour  is  late, 

Defying  Tide  and  Time  and  Fate ; 

Or,  maybe,  Hans,  you  must  have  known 

That  out  the  highway,  mile  by  mile, 

If  you  had  faded,  passed  or  flown, 

The  game  would  not  have  been  worth  while, 

Baseball  without  Hans  Wagner's  name? — 

Who'd  care  to  see  that  sort  of  game? 

A  box  score  minus  Wagner's  hit? — 

We  couldn't  even  think  of  it ! 

V 

Wars  drift  by — 

Wars  and  rumors  of  war's  alarm — 

But  the  light  still  flames  in  your  Batting  Eye, 

And  the  snap  remains  in  your  ancient  arm ; 

For  Time  has  beckoned  you  in  vain — 

Has  called  you  with  its  yearly  plea — 

But  you  still  hold  your  ancient  reign 

And  stick  around — at  forty-three — 


13°  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

At  forty-three — when  most  of  them  at  thirty-four 

Have  long  since  faded  from  the  push — 

Have  driven  in  their  final  score 

Or  drifted  back  into  the  Bush. 

But  you  have  never  heard  Time  call, 

Too  busy  out  there  playing  ball, 

Making  a  fancy  stop  or  hit 

Or  all  the  bally  rest  of  it. 

VI 

And  so — 

From  all  who  love  the  game, 

Here's  to  the  glory  of  your  fame — 

Wave  on,  forever  wave,  Old  Scout, 

Safe  from  the  Umpire's  final  "Out"— 

You,  who  have  found  the  fabled  fount 

Of  Youth,  and  April's-yet-to-be — 

You  who  have  spurned  Time's  fatal  count 

To  play  the  game  at  forty-three. 


BALLADE  OF  BRUISERS 

"Into  the  night  go  one  and  all." 

— W.  E.  HENLEY. 

Where  are  the  burly  fists  that  swayed 

The  raging  millions — blow  by  blow? 
The  crashing  jabs  that  each  essayed 

For  cheering  crowds  to  see  and  know? 
Old  John  L.'s  slam  against  the  foe? 

Jim  Corbett's  skill  amid  the  brawl? 
The  brave — the  big — the  fast — the  slow  ? 

"Into  the  night  go  one  and  all." 

War  gods  that  led  the  Big  Parade- 
Where  Ruby  Robert  got  the  dough; 

Or  out  the  regal  cavalcade 

Where  Big  Jeff  ruled  the  fighting  show ; 

Hail — Fighting  Men — in  battle  glow! 
No  answer  echoes  to  our  call, 

Save  on  the  far  wind's  undertow — 
"Into  the  night  go  one  and  all." 


I32  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

The  curtain  swings — the  slam  is  made — 

Far  whirls  the  cheering,  to  and  fro; 
Fame  stalks  across  the  Open  Glade 

For  stalwarts  forming,  row  on  row; 
Jack  Johnson  ?    None  might  overthrow 

This  sable  king's  eternal  thrall, 
Until  his  time  had  come  to  know 

"Into  the  night  go  one  and  all." 

So  one  by  one  they  come  and  go 
Nor  heed  amid  the  laureled  stall, 

Fame's  vanished  ghosts  that  whisper  low 
"Into  the  night  go  one  and  all." 

THE  BUSH  TO  THE  BIG  LEAGUE 

I  send  you  my  sons  and  my  favorite  ones, 

The  sons  that  I  love  the  best  ; 
I  send  them  to  you  when  I  know  they  are  due 

And  ready  to  tackle  the  test; 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  !33 

I  send  you  my  sons,  but  it  isn't  a  gift, 

It's  merely  a  loan,  for  when 
They  have  served  out  their  day  of  "promotion 
and  pay" 

They  come  to  my  arms  again. 

For  they  all  come  back  to  their  Mother, 

However  the  die  is  cast ; 
They  gather  the  cheers  of  the  radiant  years 

But  the  Bush  is  their  home  at  last. 
I  reach  them  and  enfold  them,  I  make  them  and 
mold  them, 

By  fields  of  the  East  and  West ; 
And  then  at  the  time  of  their  ball  playing  prime 

You  take  them  away  from  my  breast  ; 
You  give  them  acclaim  at  the  height  of  their 
fame, 

In  the  glow  of  their  youth — but  when 
They  are  broken  and  done  and  their  glory  is 
spun 

They  come  to  my  arms  again. 


134  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

For  they  all  come  back  to  their  Mother, 

However  the  die  is  cast ; 
They  gather  the  cheers  of  the  radiant  years, 

But  they  come  to  my  arms  at  last. 

They  leave  me  to  go  where  their  glory's  aglow 

In  the  gleam  of  a  mighty  renown, 
And  their  eyes  see  the  light  of  a  flag  winning 
fight 

In  the  swirl  of  a  major  league  town ; 
But  speeding  Time  cries  to  the  Mattys  and  TVS, 

As  well  as  the  others — and  then 
As  they  turn  to  the  truth  from  the  rare  dreams 
of  youth 

They  come  to  my  arms  again. 

For  they  all  come  back  to  their  Mother, 

However  the  die  is  cast  ; 
They  gather  the  cheers  of  the  radiant  years, 

But  they  come  to  my  arms  at  last. 


THE   LAND   OF    PAR 

There  are  days  when  my  drives  wing  far, 

When  my  iron  shots  clear  the  rut; 
But  then  when  I  get  on  the  green  in  two 
I  putt  and  I  putt  and  I  putt. 

There  are  days  when  my  chip  shots  roll 

Like  a  Vardon's  to  the  pin, 
But  I've  missed  my  drive  and  I've  taken  six 

At  last  when  the  putt  drops  in. 

There  are  days  when  my  putts  run  true 
And  straight  to  the  waiting  hole ; 

But  these  are  the  days  when  my  mashie  shots 
Have  shattered  my  aching  soul. 

Oh,  gods  of  the  golfer's  realm, 

Over  the  bunkered  heather, 
When  is  the  day  to  come  when  I 

Hook  three  fine  shots  together? 
135 


136  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

From  over  the  mystic  seas 

The  answer  clears  the  foam — 
"On  the  day  St.  Peter  turns  the  key 

And  Heaven  calls  you  home." 

THERE— UP— AND  BACK 

I 

I  saw  him  first  a  kid — 
A  hard,  free-swinging  devil  in  the  Bush ; 
Fast  as  the  winds  that  sweep  the  open  plains, 
As  fast  as  the  lightning  flashes  down  the  sky, 
With    rippling    muscles    wrought    of   tempered 

steel, 

Steel  springs  within  his  arm 
And  in  his  legs, 
And  in  his  face 
The  burning  glow  of  Youth, 
Raw  Youth  that  turned  his  labor  into  play, 
And  made  him  romp  and  revel 
Out  the  field 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  137 

And  laugh  at  errors  that  were  but  a  part 

Of  all  the  fun 

That  he  was  having  there. 

II 

And  then  I  saw  him  in  a  higher  league, 

A  kid  just  coming  to  know  his  worth, 

Who  looked  ahead 

And  dreamed  of  Big  League  fame, 

The  plaudits  of  ten  thousand  raving  fans, 

And  all  the  Hip-hip  and  the  rest  of  it 

That  hailed  "Another  Cobb," 

A  coming  Tris, 

With  endless  speed 

And  power  for  the  peg. 

Ill 
I  saw  him  next 

When  he  had  reached  the  top ; 

A  mighty  ruler  in  the  Realm  of  Swat, 

Where  raving  thousands 


138  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Cheered  his  regal  sway 

And  all  the  world  lay  at  his  steel-shod  feet ; 

Where  blazing  headlines 

Gave  his  Batting  Eye 

High  place  with  War 

And  armies  on  the  march, 

Or  precedence  above 

Such  tawdry  things  as  diplomats  and  czars ; 

For  he  could  hit 

With  any  man  that  lived 

And  range  afar  for  hits  that  others  made, 

And  so  for  ten  great  years  he  held  his  place 

And  saw  the  world  but  in  the  flashing  glow 

Of  easy  fame 

And  royal  circumstance. 

IV 

And  then  I  saw  the  arm  once  made  of  steel 
Begin  to  rust  and  crack  and  lose  its  snap ; 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  139 

I  saw  the  drag  that  came  upon  his  speed 

As  cheers  turned  into  jeers 

Where  day  by  day 

His  waning  blows  popped  into  waiting  hands ; 

I  saw  the  smile  fade  out  upon  his  face 

That  turned,  bewildered,  to  a  crowd  that  once 

Had  been  his  friend,  but  now 

Was  shrieking  "Take  him  out !" 

"Back  to  the  Bush,  you  bonehead,  on  the  jump." 

"Go  get  a  crutch,  go  out  somewhere  and  die !" 

And  still  they  wondered 

Why  he  was  a  crab. 

V 

I  saw  him  next 
Back  in  the  Bush  again, 
The  circle  finished  and  the  journey  done ; 
An  old  and  broken  man  at  thirty-three, 
Who  played  as  in  a  dream, 


140  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

And  who  above 

The  taunting  jeers  that  came 

From  tank  town  fans  that  jeered  his  labored  play 

Still  heard  from  far  away, 

From  other  years, 

The  mighty  roar  of  twenty  thousand  men 

Who  called  upon  him  for  the  winning  hit, 

Who  shrieked  and  stamped   and  howled  their 

mad  acclaim 

When  from  his  bat  the  streaking  missile  flew ; 
His  rough  red  hand  was  pulled  across  his  eyes, 
But  still  he  could  not  wipe  the  dream  away 
Of  some  lost  June 
Back  in  another  age 
Where  Youth,  raw  Youth, 
Was  sweeping  him  along, 
Not  mocking,  in  its  course, 
A  faded  dream. 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 
VI 

And  still,  within  the  stands,  they  sit  and  say, 
"Well,  pretty  soft  for  that  bird,  getting  paid 
For  having  fun 
Like  this  each  afternoon.* 


THE    CAUSE    ETERNAL 

Here  exist  the  oldest  words  the  hand  of  man  has 

written, 

"Umpire's  bum  decision  lost  the  game." 
Penned  long,  weary  years  before   Queen  Cleo 

Pat  was  bitten, 

"Umpire's  bum  decision  lost  the  game." 
Shortstops  may  have  booted  six  or  seven  easy 

chances, 

Batsmen  may  have  popped  to  first  or  whiffed 
in  dull-eyed  trances, 


142  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

But  next  day  in  the  public  prints  this  line  meets 

angry  glances — 
"Umpire's  bum  decision  cost  the  game." 

Back  in  old  Doc  Homer's  day  this  line  was  sere 

and  yellow, 

"Umpire's  bum  decision  lost  the  game." 
What  is  that  resounding  phrase  young  Spartans 

used  to  bellow? 

"Umpire's  bum  decision  lost  the  game." 
Fielders  kick  the  ball  about  from  season  unto 

season, 
Pitchers  tear  off  passes  in  a  style  that  smacks 

of  treason, 
But  when  the  bally  scrap  is  lost,  you  know  the 

final  reason — 
"Umpire's  bum  decision  cost  the  game." 


'EVEN  THIS  SHALL  PASS  AWAY" 

"Once  in  Persia  ruled  a  King, 
Who  upon  his  signet  ring 
Graved  a  motto  true  and  wise 
Which,  when  held  before  his  eyes, 
Gave  him  counsel  at  a  glance, 
Fit  for  any  change  or  chance. 
Solemn  words — and  these  were  they, 

'Even  this  shall  pass  away.' ' 

— OLD  POEM. 

Once  in  Eli  ruled  a  "Camp" 
Who  each  year  produced  a  Champ, 
Where  crowds  chortled  "Atta  Boy," 
At  a  Shevlin  or  a  Coy, 
Where  he  hurled  the  Crimson  back 
With  the  Orange  and  the  Black, 
Yet  there  echoed  o'er  the  fray: 
"Even  this  shall  pass  away." 


144  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Unto  Harvard's  waning  star 
Came  one  day  another  Czar, 
One  who  molded  a  machine 
Without  equal  on  the  green; 
One  who  made  the  Tiger  quail, 
One  who  put  a  dent  in  Yale ; 
But  I  heard  the  far  winds  say: 
"Even  this  shall  pass  away." 

One  by  one  I  watch  them  fade 
Back  within  the  Spectral  Glade — 
Matty,  Wagner,  Brown  and  Kling, 
Walsh  and  Bender  on  the  wing; 
And  today  we  hear  the  mob 
Clamor  out  the  fame  of  Cobb ; 
Cobb  who  holds  unbroken  sway — 
"Even  this  shall  pass  away." 


THE  RECORD 

When  the  Game  is  Done 
And  the  Players  creep 
One  by  one 

To  the  League  of  Sleep — 
Deep  in  the  Night 

They  may  not  know 
The  way  of  the  fight, 
The  fate  of  the  foe, 
And  the  cheer  that  passed 

From  applauding  bands 
Is  stilled  at  last — 
But  the  Record  stands. 

The  base  hits  made, 

And  the  errors  wrought  ; 

How  the  Game  was  played — 
How  the  fight  was  fought- 


14$  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Though  the  Game  be  done 

Where  the  Night  is  deep 
And  one  by  one 

From  the  Field  they  creep — 
Their  day  has  passed 

Through  the  Twilight  Gates, 
But  the  Scroll  is  cast 

And  the  Record  waits. 

SCOTIA'S   REBUTTAL 

(The  last  British  amateur  golf  championship  was 
won  by  J.  L.  C.  Jenkins,  of  Troon,  Scotland.) 

Aye  there,  MacPherson,  it's  just  as  it  should  be  ; 
It's  just  as  we  knew  in  our  hearts  that  it  would 

be; 
It's  just  what  we've  waited  and  watched  for  long 

years 
As  we  stood  to  one  side  with  our  bottled-up 

cheers ;    \ 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  147 

But  the  Hiltons  and  Ouimets  and  Travers  and 

Balls 
Are    driven    at    last    from    the    championship 

stalls 
As  the  May  winds  are  lifting  one  toast  in  a 

croon — 
"To  the  health  of  our  own  Lawrie  Jenkins,  of 

Troon." 

Aye  there,  MacPherson,  go  round  up  the  block — 
Go  fetch  us  in  Jamie  and  Sandy  and  Jock, 
For  the  thistle  at  last  tops  the  shamrock  and 

rose 
And  the  proud  eagle  flutters  and  flops  with  the 

crows ; 
The  game  has   come  back  to  the   land  of   its 

birth, 
To  the  mother  that  nursed  it  and  gave  it  its 

worth ; 


148  SONGS    OFTHE    STALWART 

And  we'll  join  in  the  chorus  of  May  winds  that 

croon — 
"To  the  health  of  our  own  Lawrie  Jenkins,  of 

Troon." 

We  knew  it,  MacPherson — it  came  to  our  ken 

That  Scotia  was  due  for  her  glory  again; 

For  who  was  the  race  that  first  walloped  the 
pill 

And  baffed,  hooked  and  stymied  from  valley  to 
hill? 

And  who  was  the  race  that  first  swung  from  the 
tee 

And  planted  a  mashie  shot  dead  for  a  "three"  ? 

So  we'll  drink  in  the  dream  glow  of  St.  An 
drew's  moon 

"To  the  health  of  our  own  Lawrie  Jenkins,  of 
Troon." 


PUMPELLY— OF  YALE 

(Who,  with  a  minute  left  to  play,  took  his  place 
os  a  substitute  and  kicked  a  50-yard  field  goal 
in  a  Yale-Princeton  game.) 

If  you  figure  they've  overplayed  fiction, 

Where  substitutes  rise  in  the  fray 
Without  the  least  semblance  of  friction 

And  make  the  star  play  of  the  day — 
If  you  figure  such  stuff  is  a  breeder 

Of  yarns  that  are  foolish  or  stale — 
Just  a  moment,  I  beg  of  you,  Reader — 

Shake  hands  with  Pumpelly  of  Yale. 

When  you  read  some  impossible  story 
Of  a  Sub  who  was  jammed  in  the  game, 

With  one  minute  left  where  his  gory 
Companions  were  beaten  in  shame — 

"He  met  the  last  hope  like  a  fighter, 

A  full  fifty  yards  without  fail"— 
149 


150  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Ere  you  start  in  to  pan  the  poor  writer — 
Shake  hands  with  Pumpelly  of  Yale. 

"But  one  minute  left  for  the  battle, 

When  Smithers,  the  Sub,  took  his  place — 
His  signal  rang  out  with  a  rattle — 

A  boding  hush  fell  on  the  place — 
Thud  !  Boom  !  With  a  kick  that  was  mulish 

They  saw  the  ball  whirl  up  and  sail" — 
You  say  this  is  soppy  and  foolish? 

Shake  hands  with  Pumpelly  of  Yale. 

AN    OLD   REFRAIN 

"To  the  glory  that  was  Greece, 
i 

And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome." 

— POE. 
Out  along  an  ancient  track, 

Where  Fate  takes  its  fickle  spin, 
Greece  and  Rome  have  drifted  back 
As  the  Bush  has  called  them  in; 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

So,  amid  the  hit-and-miss, 
\Ye  now  shift  the  battle  cry 

To  the  glory  that  is  Tris 

And   the   grandeur   that  is   Ty_ 

Greece  once  hit  .484, 

Rome  poled  out  .493 ; 
Each  one  knew  the  Winning  Score 

In  the  mighty  jubilee; 
Once  they  knew  the  buoyant  bliss 

Linked  unto  the  Batting  Eye, 
Knew  the  glory  that  is  Tris 

And  the  grandeur  that  is  Ty. 

One  and  all  fade  from  the  frame, 

Men  and  nations — through  the  fight 

Hold  their  brief  span  in  the  game 
As  they  pass  into  the  night; 

But  before  they  come  to  this — 

Now,  before  their  fame  must  fly — 


*52  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Here's — the  glory  that  is  Tris 
And  the  grandeur  that  is  Ty. 

BALLADE   OF   HEROES 

(Bob  Emslie  has  just  concluded  his  2$th  year  as 
an  umpire.} 

When  Hindenburg  held  the  Russ  at  bay 

His  name  was  entered  upon  Fame's  hall; 
When  General  Joff  checked  the  Teuton  sway, 

The  Red  Game  bowed  to  his  mighty  thrall, 
The  Lily  of  France  crept  out  of  the  pall  . 

And  medals  were  pinned  on  his  gleaming  coat ; 
Who  is  the  greatest  hero  of  them  all? 

Emslie's  the  entry  that  gets  my  vote! 

The  Trooper  faces  the  shrapnel's  spray, 

And  he  is  a  hero  beyond  recall  ; 
To  face  grim  death  in  the  deadly  fray, 

To  give  your  life  at  the  country's  call — 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  153 

Where  has  glgry  a  greater  haul? 

Show  me  the  chance  for  a  greater  gloat! 
On  the  Field  of  Honor  the  heroes  fall ; 

But  Emslie's  the  fellow  that  gets  my  vote ! 

Haunted  and  taunted,  day  by  day, 

For  a  thousand  weeks  by  the  sore  fan's  squall, 
Branded  a  thief  upon  each  called  play, 

Hissed  and  hooted  on  each  pitched  ball; 
Held  to  scorn  in  the  biting  scrawl, 

The  One  and  Only  Eternal  Goat- 
Come,  ye  heroes  and  crowd  the  stall — 

Emslie's  the  entry  that  gets  my  vote! 

From  the  northern  snows  into  flowered  Gaul, 
By  the  Seven  Seas  where  the  great  hulks  float, 

On  with  the  laurel  from  Pall  to  Mall — 
Emslie's  the  entry  that  gets  my  vote ! 


RUBE  MARQUARD'S   SOLILOQUY 

How  speed  the  ages  on  their  way — 

How  old  Doc  Time  must  flutter  by ; 
How  brief,  alas,  each  vanished  day 

As  centuries  arise  and  die; 
For  here  I  see  it  jotted  down 

On  history's  eternal  slate 
Where  Babylon  was  quite  a  town — 

And   I — had  Nineteen   Straight. 

But  yesterday  J.  Caesar  cleaned 

The  pennant  up  in  vanished  Gaul ; 
But  yesterday  Kid  David  beaned 

Goliath  with  his  swiftest  ball; 
For  I  remember  from  the  mold 

Of  Things  That  Were — each  deed  and  date- 
When  Cleopatra  knocked  'em  cold — 

And  I — had  Nineteen  Straight. 
J54 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  J55 

Within  my  den  at  night  I  read 

Forgotten  legends  of  the  years; 
Gray  age  on  age,  I  lamp  the  screed 

Of  Hector's  fall  and  Helen's  tears ; 
Aye — back  beyond  Time's  fading  ridge 

I  trail  with  those  who  leered  at  Fate — 
When  old  Horatius  held  the  bridge— 

And  I— had  Nineteen  Straight. 

THE    RACE 

(.  .  ."Jockey  Smith,  fatally  injured  in  the 
third  race,  never  regained  consciousness.  All 
through  the  night  he  was  still  in  the  saddle  in  his 
delirium,  urging  his  mount  forward,  pleading, 
cursing,  attempting  to  use  both  whip  and  spur." 
...) 
Stirrup  to  stirrup  and  neck  to  neck; 

On  through  the  night  with  the  wire  to  gain; 
White  foam  crowned  with  a  crimson  fleck — 

Gaunt  hands  clutching  a  mystic  rein; 


156  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Into  the  stretch  that  men  call  Life, 

Now  he  is  cursing — and  now  he  pleads — 

The  whip  comes  down  like  the  slash  of  a  knife — 
But  the  Pale  Horse,  Death,  in  the  saddle,  leads. 

Into  the  stretch,  where,  side  by  side, 

A  specter  clings  to  a  phantom's  back; 
God — what  a  race  this  is  to  ride 

With  never  a  thud  on  the  starless  track ; 
With  never  a  cheer  from  the  shadowed  stands, 

And    never    a     sound — save    a    half-choked 

breath^- 
On  and  on  through  the  Lonesome  Lands, 

Riding  a  Dream  in  a  race  with  Death! 

SOMEWHERE  IN  THE  GAME 
Somewhere  in  the  Game 

Beyond  the  grip  of  battle  and  the  dream 
Of  greater  conquests  and  of  richer  fame 

There  comes  the  chance  to  lay  aside  the  gleam, 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  *57 

The  gleam  that  we  call  glory — or  renown — 
But  which  is  mostly  myth — to  lend  a  hand 

To  some  fagged,  reeling  entry  who  is  down, 
And  give  him  one  more  scrimmage  with  the 
band. 

Somewhere  in  the  Game 

You'll  find  a  good  bit  more  than  winning  strife, 
The  fickle  cheering  or  the  mad  acclaim 

That  you  once  thought  to  be  the  sum  of  life ; 
You'll  find  the  value  of  all  this  is  small, 

A  drifting  phantom  through  a  shadowed  glen, 
Where  you  might  lift  some  pal  who  had  to  fall, 

And  give  him  one  more  chance  to  start  again. 

LINES  TO  STUFFY  McINNIS 
Stuffy,  I've  often  wondered 

Just  how  it  seems  to  you, 
Groping  around  in  the  cellar, 

Part  of  a  tail-end  crew ; 


158  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Under  the  Yanks  and  Indians, 

Trailing  even  the  Browns  — 
You  who  were  part  of  the  Cossack  Guard 

That  raided  the  captured  towns. 

Stuffy,  I've  often  wondered, 

Here  in  my  Harlem  den, 
Do  ghosts  of  the  lost  years  ever 

Gather  for  you  again? 
Ghosts  of  the  vanished  legion 

Back  ere  the  bubble  burst, 
With  Collins,  Baker  and  Barry 
'em  out  at  first? 


Stuffy,  watching  a  rally 
Curbed  by  a  weaker  mate, 

Doesn't  the  ghost  of  Baker 
Stalk  again  to  the  plate? 

Doesn't  the  shadow  of  Bender 
Quiver  athwart  your  flank? 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  159 

How  would  you  like  to  be  working 
Back  of  the  shoots  of  Plank? 

Piking  alone  with  trailers, 

Here  as  the  summer  flits, 
Sometimes  isn't  it  lonesome 

Wasting  your  two-base  hits? 
Batting  above  Three  Hundred 

While  hanging  on  to  a  dream 
Swept  from  the  years  behind  you, 

Last  of  the  Old  Regime? 

THE  GAME  AND  THE  PIPER 

This  is  your  Game,  old  pal,  the  Game  that  you 

loved  so  well; 
That  crowned  you  King  of  the  Field  through  the 

sweep  of  a  golden  spell; 
That  put  the  world  at  your  feet  in  the  border  of 

dreams-come-true, 
But  here  at  the  end  of  the  trail — well,  what  has 

it  done  for  you? 


160  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

It  gave  you  fame  in  a  flash, 
And  rank  at  a  tender  age ; 

The  thrill  of  the  headlong  clash, 
A  Name  on  the  Printed  Page. 

Then  jeers  for  the  cheers  of  old, 
It  gave  with  a  snarl  of  glee ; 

It  took  your  job  in  the  fold, 
And  you  were  but  thirty-three. 

At  the  year  when  most  men  start 
On  the  wide  trail's  upward  sweep, 

It  broke  your  grip — and  your  heart — 
In  the  rut  where  the  Hasbeens  creep. 

Acclaimed  in  the  Big  Corral, 

Loud  cheered  in  the  Ruling  Push, 

Say,  how  does  it  feel,  old  pal, 
To  be  bawled  out  in  the  Bush? 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  l6l 

In  the  Bush  with  a  worn-out  wing, 
Loud  cursed  on  a  tank  town  lot, 

The  Game,  yes,  it  made  you  king, 
Has  it  made  you  pay — or  not  ? 

This  is  your  Game,  old  pal,  the  Game  that  you 

loved  so  well, 
That  crowned  you  King  of  the  Field  through  the 

sweep  of  a  golden  spell ; 
You've  saved  from  the  grip  of  time — from  the 

laurel  that  crowned  your  brow 
A  dream  and  a  worn-out  glove — well,  what  is 

the  answer  now  ? 

AS  IT  SOMETIMES  HAPPENS 

He  took  his   turn,  half-heartedly,   outlining   an 

excuse ; 
He  figured  he  was  beaten — so  he  couldn't  see 

the  use ; 


162  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

But  when  he  made  his  little  play,  it  took  a  lucky 

swerve, 

A  sudden,  unexpected  hop — a  title-winning  curve, 
And  straightway  they  exclaimed  about  his  "cour 
age"  and  his  "nerve." 

He  started  in  with  bulldog  jaw  to  make  a  win 
ning  fight; 

He  started  in  to  see  it  through,  as  any  stalwart 
might ; 

But  when  he  cut  in  with  his  play,  it  took  a  hard- 
luck  bound 

And  caromed  as  it  shouldn't  have  on  any  sort  of 
ground, 

And  so  they  rose  and  branded  him  a  "quitter" 
and  a  "hound." 


SONGS  ABOVE  THE  DRUMFIRE 


BEYOND   THE   CHARGE 

Far  to  the  right  the  big  guns  tell  their  story ; 

For  to  the  left  the  shrapnel  hurtles  by, 
Singing  again  its  song  of  death  and  glory, 
Where,  in  between,  the  marching  ghosts  drift 

by; 

You — in  the  lines — still  watch  the  vivid  token 
Flashed  through  the  dusk  in  all  its  crimson 

gleam, 
But  here,  through  the  night,  we  hold  our  sleep 

unbroken, 
Dreamers  too  worn  to  dream. 

Here  is  "the  peace  that  passeth  understanding," 
The  peace  that  we  have  waited  through  the 

years ; 
No  more  grim  captains  of  the  strife  commanding 

Worn  hosts  to  charge  the  battlement  of  tears ; 
165 


166  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

No  more  the  heartache  of  a  vain  endeavor, 
Into  the  storm  of  bitter  battle  drawn ; 

Deep  falls  the  night  where  winds  come  whisper 
ing,  "Never — 
Never  another  dawn." 

Never  another  dawn  where,  to  eyes  weary, 

The  gray  light  steals  upon  the  sleeper's  rest ; 
The  tramp  of  feet,  the  call  of  bugle  dreary, 

To  end  the  dream  or  stir  the  dreamer's  breast ; 
Never  another  dawn  with  strife's  Tomorrow, 

The  Day  is  done — the  last  lone  couch  awaits — 
Here,  at  the  Road's  End  of  all  strife  and  sorrow, 

Safe  through  the  twilight  gates. 

WHAT   OF   IT? 

Perhaps  the  time  is  nearing  when  we'll  all  go  to 
the  front; 

But  what  of  it? 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  *67 

The  married  man,  the  single  man,  the  brawny 
and  the  runt ; 

But  what  of  it? 

Some  twenty  millions  now  have  gone — the  brav 
est  and  the  best — 

From  every  land  beneath  the  sun  to  face  the  final 
test; 

Why  should  we  hope  to  hang  around  within  a 
downy  nest? 

So  what  of  it? 

Perhaps  when  we  are  called  to  go  we'll  find  the 
game  is  tough; 

But  what  of  it? 

We'll  find  our  dreams  are  shattered  where  the 
hand  of  Fate  is  rough ; 

But  what  of  it? 

We'll  find  that  all  our  idle  joys  have  come  be 
neath  a  ban ; 


168  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

We'll  find  our  share  of  bitterness  among  the  fight 
ing  clan; 

But  was  Life  made  for  a  weakling — or  was  Life 
made  for  a  Man  ? 

So  what  of  it? 

Perhaps  among  the  fallen  brave  we'll  find  the 
grave  is  deep ; 

But  what  of  it? 

Perhaps  in  somber  No  Man's  Land  we'll  know 
our  final  sleep; 

But  what  of  it? 
Since  each  of  us  owes  God  a  death — and  each 

has  got  to  pay — 
Why  not  swing  out  with  valiant  stride  along  the 

open  way 

To  where  the  Great  Adventure  waits  this  side  of 
Judgment  Day? 

So  what  of  it? 


ALAN    SEEGER 

(American  Member  of  the  Foreign  Legion,  killed 
in  Action  July  4th,  1916.) 

Somewhere  in  France  where  crosses  lean 

Above  so  many  graves  today ; 
Where   faded  lilies  place  their  screen 

And  summer  winds  kneel  down  to  pray — 
You  who  first  ventured  overseas 

To  watch,  at  last,  the  light  grow  dim, 
God  must  have  sent  his  gentlest  breeze 

To  bring  your  spirit  back  to  Him. 

Somewhere  in  France,  dust  unto  dust, 

You  wait  beyond  the  Inn  of  Life, 
Where  through  lone  nights  the  guarding  crust 

Shuts  out  the  clamor  of  the  strife; 
But  far  above  the  crimson  sod 

No  barrier  your  soul  might  stop, 
169 


170  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

When  from  the  Great  White  Throne  of  God 
You  see  the  Legion  cross  the  top. 

A  year  ago  today  you  knew 

The  endless  melody  of  song  ; 
You  saw  that  summer  skies  were  blue — 

That  drifting  summer  days  were  long; 
You  waited,  while  the  twilight's  breath 

Came  crooning  some  old  serenade, 
To  hold  your  "rendezvous  with  Death 

At  some  disputed  barricade.'* 

Today  the  Legion  holds  the  line 

Unbroken  by  the  driving  mass, 
Where  you  have  helped  to  write  the  sign 

In  dripping  blood— "They  Shall  Not  Pass  I' 
And  now  beyond  the  far  divide 

You  see  the  Starry  Flag  advance 
Among  the  millions  who  have  died 

For  love  of  Liberty — and  France. 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  I?1 

The  Eagle's  wings  at  last  are  spread 

Above  a  never-beaten  shield, 
Where  still  among  the  deathless  dead 

Your  specter  haunts  the  clotted  field; 
And  borne  afar  on  summer's  breath 

You  send  this  message  hurtling  through— 
"I  had  a  rendezvous  with  Death — 

I  did  not  fail  that  rendezvous!" 

OVER    THERE 

As  through  the  mists  we  looked — and  dreamed 
How  far — how  far  away  it  seemed 

Over  There ; 

The  red  flash  of  their  cannon  fire — 
The  flame  that  lit  some  reeling  spire — 
The  mighty  thunder  of  their  guns 

Which  sang  the  Master  Song  of  death, 
The  ghosts  which  met  dawn's  rising  suns 

And  drifted  out  on  April's  breath — 


I?2  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Beyond  dull  sweeps  of  sky  and  sea — 
How  far  away  it  seemed  to  be ! 
How  far  away  it  seemed — and  then — 
We  woke — and  turned — -and  looked  again- 

And  now — where  flames  of  crimson  rise 
How  close  to  us — how  near  it  lies 

Over  There — 

The  red  flash  of  their  cannon  shines 
Upon  the  steel  that  arms  our  lines— 
The  mighty  thunder  seems  to  be 

Less  than  a  half-league  from  our  clan, 
Where  Fate  has  turned  an  ancient  sea 

To  something  less  than  half  a  span  ; 
For  sweeps  of  sky  and  sea  are  gone 
Where  forming,  storming  lines  rush  on, 
Waiting  the  day  ahead,  until 
Old  Glory  crowns  some  battered  hill. 


GOLF    IN    EUROPE 

No  more  the  mashie  flicks  the,  pill 

Along  the  ancient  green; 
No  more  the  brassie's  sweeping  clout 

Reechoes  down  the  scene; 
But  caddies  for  the  player  Death 

Amid  the  shots  that  fly, 
The  only  divots  they  replace 

Are  where  the  dead  men  lie. 

Deep-bunkered  in  the  crimson  trench, 

Unplayable  with  gore, 
Their  flashing  irons  leap  to  meet 

The  cannon  belching  "Fore !" — 
And  where  the  shrapnel's  long  approach 

Comes  booming  through  the  strife, 
The  only  par  they  dream  of  now 

Is  one  more  day  of  life. 
i73 


174  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

The  verdant  turf  still  winds  afar 

Where  April's  fairway  rolls, 
Safe  from  the  iron  that  today 

Rips  only  into  souls ; 
And  each  man's  drive  shall  come  to  rest 

Within  a  trap  so  deep 
That  nothing  but  the  blade  of  God 

Shall  lift  him  from  his  sleep. 

And  you  who  curse  the  cuppy  lie 

Or  mourn  your  wretched  fate, 
Because  you  missed  a  simple  putt 

And  marred  your  perfect  slate — 
Give  one  thought  to  their  game  today 

Among  the  rotting  dead, 
Where  in  the  wake  of  every  shot 

The  dark  green  turf  grows  red. 


"SOMEWHERE— IN   SOMEWHERE" 

Somewhere   in    Somewhere   where   the   drifting 

shadows  creep 

Is  there  left  a  dreamless  sleep? 
Somewhere  beyond  the  borders  of  the  flame-en 
circled  land 

Where  the  weary  make  their  stand, 
Where  the  phantom  fires  of  eight  million  ghosts 

are  glowing, 

Where  the  Marne  and  Meuse  are  flowing 
Through  valleys  of  despair; 

Where  they  sing  the  endless  glory  of  the  na 
tion's  fearless  men 
Through  the  battle's  crimson  glare. 

But  how  about  the  millions  who  will  never 
wake  again 

Somewhere — in  Somewhere? 
175 


I76  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Somewhere    in    Somewhere    you    can    hear    the 

ghostly  tread 

Of  the  many  millions  dead ; 
And  I  wonder  if  they  wonder  as  they  wait  by 

land  and  sea, 
Why  it  ever  had  to  be? 
Is  there  sleep,  I  wonder,  broken  by  the  shells 

that  echo,  screaming, 
Day  and  night  above  their  dreaming, 
Hurling  death  across  the  air? 

The  living  know  the  glory  of  the  charge  by 

hill  and  glen 
Where  the  valiant-hearted  fare. 

But  how  about  the  millions  who  will  never  care 

again 
Somewhere — in  Somewhere  ? 

SONGS   THE   SOLDIERS   SING 
You'll  rarely  ever  find  him  humming 
A  song  of  war  and  battle  bold ; 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  177 

You'll  rarely  ever  hear  him  strumming 

A  lilt  set  in  heroic  mold; 
For  when  he  finds  the  big  job  grating 

Upon  his  nerves  across  the  foam, 
He'd  rather  sing  of  some  one  waiting 

Back  at  a  place  called  Home,  Sweet  Home. 

You'd  think  before  some  mighty  battle, 

Surrounded  by  the  conflict's  roar, 
He'd  make  the  far  flung  echoes  rattle 

With  songs  of  carnage  and  of  gore; 
You'd  think,  with  wild  enthusiasm 

He'd  give  vent  to  his  final  breath 
With  something  in  a  vocal  spasm 

That  ended  "Victory— or  Death!" 

But  when  he  hears  the  dusk  winds  bringing 
Some  old  dream  from  the  heart  of  June, 

The  chances  are  you'll  hear  him  singing 
Some  long  forgotten  foolish  tune — 


I?8  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Something  to  rhyme  with  summer  posies 
Of  blue  eyes  and  the  twilight  gloam, 

Of  lips  red  with  the  flame  of  roses 

Back  at  a  place  called  Home,  Sweet  Home. 

OUR   UNCLE   SAMUEL 

He  rarely  starts  off  at  top  speed  ; 

In  fact,  his  legs  are  often  tangled; 
And  there  are  other  times,  indeed, 

When  everything  he  does  is  jangled; 
But  though  he  flounders  out  the  slope 

With  awkwardness  that  won't  diminish, 
You'll  find,  on  looking  up  the  dope, 

They  rarely  hook  him  at  the  finish. 

Uneven?     Yes,  as  any  rhyme, 

And  although  moving  on,  intently, 

He  seems  to  waste  a  lot  of  time, 
And  'does— to  break  it  more  than  gently; 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  I?9 

And  though  at  times,  through  awkward  fits, 
He  seems  to  have  no  thought  of  winning, 

He  has  a  knack  of  bunching  hits 
Before  they  reach  the  final  inning. 

A  queer  old  duck,  our  Uncle  Sam, 

Now  busily  pot-hunting  Junkers ; 
For  form  he  doesn't  give  a  whoop, 

So  long  as  he  can  clear  the  bunkers ; 
His  style  may  be  a  trifle  rough, 

And  though  he  seems  to  move  by  inches, 
The  old  boy's  got  a  lotta  stuff 

When  he  is  called  on  in  the  pinches. 

FRANCE 

Who  loves  brave  life  through  all  the  tides  of  time 

Where  valor  holds  review 
Craves  only  this — to  send  his  humble  rhyme 

Across  the  seas  to  you. 


180  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Where  once  again  the  winter  drift  rides  down 

Across  your  plains  of  red, 
And   Christmas  snows  have  once  more  placed 
their  crown 

Above  your  deathless  dead. 

Where,   striking  through   for  country  and   for 
home 

With  valiant  blow  for  blow, 
Each  young  Marcellus  builds  a  grander  Rome 

Than  all  the  ages  know. 

Though  Homer  lived  to  sing  your  mighty  heart 

Above  the  drumfire's  roll, 
What  words  are  there  to  tell  in  minor  part 

The  glory  of  your  soul? 

You  who  have  proved  that  life  is  king  of  death, 

That  honor  is  no  wraith, 
You,  who  are  giving  to  the  final  breath, 

The  fullness  of  your  faith. 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  l8l 

Once  more  the  mantle  of  a  Christmas  snow 

Drifts  deep  above  each  grave, 
Blacker  than  night  against  the  deathless  glow 

Above  your  fallen  brave. 

Once  more  the  moon  of  winter  sends  its  glearn 

Where,  paladin  and  pawn, 
Each  beau  sabreur  of  Valor  holds  his  dream 

Beyond  the  last  white  dawn. 

Where  each  gale  sings  its  requiem  today 

By  spur  and  plain  and  tarn, 
And  gentler  winds  kneel  down  at  dusk  to  pray 

Along  the  Meuse  and  Marne — 

Through  all  the  gray-ghost  shadows  that  have 
crept 

Where  braver  words  belong, 
An  humble  singer  asks  that  you  accept 

The  tribute  of  a  song. 


PEACE   FOR   THE   KAISER 

Some  day — when  by  dune  and  hill 

Battle  flags  at  last  are  furled; 
Some  day — when  the  drums  are  still, 

Peace  will  wreathe  a  battered  world; 
But  when  Time  has  run  its  race, 

All  the  endless  ages  through, 
Out  beyond  eternal  space — 

Say,  what  Peace  will  come  to  you ! 

While  you  live?    Through  each  black  night 
Ghosts  shall  gather,  dripping  red, 

Blotting  from  your  ghastly  sight 
Everything  except  the  Dead; 

Formless  lines  of  murdered  men — 
These  alone  will  haunt  your  view ; 

Peace  is  coming  back  again — 

But  what  Peace  will  come  to  you ! 
182 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Through  each  day  though  you  may  strive 
For  a  hiding  place  to  shun 

Children  who  should  be  alive, 
Laughing  in  the  golden  sun, 

When  their  white  lips  ask  you  "Why 
Did  you  war  upon  us,  too?" 

When  their  wee  ghosts  flutter  by- 
Say,  what  Peace  will  come  to  you ! 

When  you  die?     Yes,  graves  are  deep, 

But  where  lurking  shadows  dwell 
Broken  forms  will  haunt  your  sleep, 

Though  your  coffin  rests  on  hell. 
Underneath  the  final  sod 

You  shall  pay  the  ages  through ! 
Peace  is  coming  back — Thank  God! 

But  what  Peace  will  come  to  you ! 


THREE   YEARS   AGO 

Three  years  ago  today 

A  sudden  shadow  came  by  land  and  sea; 
But  all  the  groping  millions  went  their  way, 

Or  smiled  and  whispered,  "It  could  never  be" ; 
And  they  were  right — for  who  was  so  insane 

To  think  the  world  could  turn  to  blood  and 

tears, 
The  world  that  knew  the  sunlight  and  the  rain 

And  all  the  golden  visions  of  the  years? 

Three  years  ago  today 

The  shadow  was  no  larger  than  your  hand; 
And  so  from  all  the  wondering  array 

How  could  it  be  that  one  might  understand  ? 
Yes,  they  were   right — the   shadow  soon  must 
pass, 

For  blood  was  still  too  dear  a  thing  to  flow 
184 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  1*5 

Like  mighty  rivers  gushing  in  one  mass 
To  fill  vast  oceans  waiting  down  below. 

Three  years  ago  today 

Five  million  men  were  living,  where  tonight 
Gray  ghosts  are  groping  from  the  shell-swept 
way 

To  find  their  peace  beyond  the  bitter  fight ; 
Five  million  men  were  living — who  have  died, 

And  who  must  bide  their  time  in  unknown 

graves, 
Because  a  mad  king  was  not  satisfied 

To  sit  content  with  eighty  million  slaves. 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  A  FRONT  TRENCH 

When  my  time  comes  and  all  farewells  are  said 
To  what   few   friends   may   still   survive  the 
fight, 


186  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

I  shall  not  shrink  to  hear  the  ghostly  tread 
That   signals   Death   is    stalking   through   the 

night 

To  lead  me  forth  across  the  Mystic  Moor 
Unto  the  Tavern  of  the  Silent  Land- 
But  I  shall  smile — and  through  the  open  door 
We  two  shall  go,  as  good  friends — hand  in 
hand. 

There  I  shall  meet  the  friends  who've  gone  be 
fore, 
And  we  shall  gather  in  a  room  apart, 

And,  cup  to  cup,  shall  pledge  the  days  of  yore, 
Soul  unto  soul  and  silent  heart  to  heart; 

And  there  beneath  the  crimson  rose  that  nods 
And  sways  above  us,  free  from  toil  and  strife, 

We'll  quaff  to  you — forgotten  by  the  gods- 
Poor  souls  who  linger  at  the  Inn  of  Life. 


THE    PRINCESS    PATS 

("Out  of  the  original  regiment  only  twenty  re 
main!') 

No  need  to  call  the  roll  today; 

No  need  to  read  the  scroll  today; 

No  need  to  seek  for  friends  you  knew  among  the 
first  command; 

Small  use — you  know  the  rest  of  it, 

The  worst  of  it — the  best  of  it — 

Where  Fate  has  written  each  address — "Some 
where  in  No  Man's  Land." 

Somewhere  in  No  Man's  Land  today 

You'll  find  the  first  command  today, 

From  Neuve  Chapelle  to  Vimy  Ridge,  wherever 

they  were  sent; 

Their  share?  A  triple  store  of  it, 
They  did  their  bit,  and  more  of  it, 
So  here's  to  twenty  who  returned  where  fourteen 

hundred  went. 

187 


INTO   THE    BATTLE 

Into  the  battle  the  Trooper  speeds 

As  the  bugles  call  and  the  drums  respond; 
Into  the  fight  as  the  captain  leads 

Where  the  low  line  waits  on  the  hills  beyond ; 
Waits  for  the  signal — then  the  crack 

Of  blue  steel  rimmed  with  a  crest  of  flame, 
And  few  ride  back  on  the  homeward  track 

Where  many  rode  when  the  order  came. 

Into  the  battle  the  Trooper  speeds, 
Into  the  line  where  the  rifle  rings, 

But  little  the  Trooper  hears  or  heeds 

The  song  of  hate  which  the  shrapnel  sings — 

The  roar  of  battle — the  curst — the  shout — 
The  crash  and  clamor  of  friend  and  foe — 

The  riderless  horse  that  wheels  about 

And  gallops  past  to  the  plains  below. 
188 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  189 

For  out  from  the  smoke  wreath,  far  away, 

He  hears  the  patter  of  little  feet ; 
The  dim,  far  call  of  a  child  at  play 

With  babyhood  laughter,  low  and  sweet; 
The  murmur  of  voices,  dream-swept  far 

From  the  little  path  to  the  cottage  gate, 
Where  eagerly  under  the  evening  star 

Mother  and  child  in  the  twilight  wait. 

Into  the  battle  the  Trooper  speeds — 

But  somewhere  out  from  the  Far-off  Lands 
An  echo  drifts  where  a  soft  voice  pleads 

And  the  tender  pressure  of  little  hands ; 
A  mother's  lullaby  from  the  night 

And  a  call  to  the  Great  White  God  in  prayer 
That  one  will  come  from  the  far-off  fight 

To  those  who  wait  in  the  darkness  there. 


IN    NO   MAN'S   LAND 
In  No  Man's  Land,  I  wonder  if 

The  gray  ghosts  meet  when  night  droops  down  ? 
To  talk  of  charge  and  countercharge, 

Of  trench  attack  or  blazing  town? 
To  laugh,  maybe,  at  fear  or  pain, 

They  knew  before  the  shrapnel's  sweep? 
Or  are  they  now  content  to  know 

A  dreamless  and  eternal  sleep? 

In  No  Man's  Land,  I  wonder  now 

If  phantom  millions  meet  at  night 
To  talk  of  old-time  years  at  home 

Before  they  toppled  in  the  fight? 
Of  one  who  waited  through  the  dusk 

When  summer  winds  were  on  the  wing; 
Or  are  they  happy  now  to  know 

The  sleep  that  only  graves  can  bring? 
190 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  I91 

I  wonder  if  they  ever  dream 

Of  ancient  field  and  country  lane? 
Of  tangled  roses  by  the  gate — 
.    Of  one  who  now  must  wait  in  vain? 
Or  do  they  dream  of  crashing  on 

With  old  commands  in  some  new  fight? 
Or  are  they  now  content  to  know 

The  sleep  that  lasts  beyond  the  night? 

THE  FALLEN 

For  those  who  have  fallen  the  living  weep  ; 

Are  they  not  asleep  ? 

They  wait  beyond  where  the  shadows  creep, 

But  their  dreams  are  deep. 

Since  the  way  is  short  and  the  day  is  brief, 

Why  should  the  world  so  waste  its  grief 

For  those  who  have  come  to  the  end  of  the 

play 
In  the  old,  brave  way? 


192  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

"They  have  come  to  die !"  you  cry,  agape 
At  the  rolling  drums. 
What  if  they  have  ?    Will  you  escape 
When  the  Hour  comes? 

THE  CANADIAN 

He  left  the  rivers  that  he  knew — 

The  mountains — thrown  against  the  sky- 
He  left  their  valleys,  pearled  with  dew, 

Nor  paused  to  question  or  reply ; 
He  left  his  ghost— but  as  he  fell 

He  left  behind  more  ghosts  than  one, 
Where,  striking  with  the  force  of  hell, 

He  gave  his  answer  to  the  Hun. 

He  left  the  far  plains'  endless  track 
To  take  his  place  amid  the  slain ; 

From  Vimy  Ridge  to  Lens  and  back, 
He  left  his  share  of  crimson  stain; 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  193 

He  left  his  shattered  soul  to  sleep 

In  riven  fields  of  gore  and  mud, 
But  crashing  through  the  rifles'  sweep, 

He  took  his  toll  in  Prussian  blood. 


ON  THANKSGIVING  DAY 

With  raw  souls  wrenched  from  the  breast 

Each  night  in  the  trenches  of  blood; 
Where  six  million  skeletons  rest 

Face  down  in  the  slime  and  the  mud ; 
Come — let  us  give  thanks  for  the  peace 

And  the  ease  into  which  we  are  drawn — 
But  give  it  so  low  that  the  dead  will  not  know, 

Nor  the  thousands  who'll  die  before  dawn, 
Where  shrapnel  sweeps  earthward  like  hail 

And  even  the  bravest  must  reel, 
Where  myriad  ghosts  take  the  trail 

In  the  wake  of  the  salvo  of  steel — 


194  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Come — let  us  give  thanks  for  the  cheer 
That  covers  the  land  where  we  dwell; 

But  give  it  so  low  that  the  ghosts  will  not  know 
As  they  swing  into  heaven — or  hell. 

BEYOND  THE  BARRIER 

Upon  our  shield  the  staining  rust 

Had  gathered  deeper  than  we  knew; 
Upon  our  blade  the  drifting  dust 

Had  dimmed  and  dulled  the  ancient  hue: 
And  we  have  floundered  through  the  pall 

As  children,  who  have  lost  their  way; 
But  somewhere,  underneath  it  all, 

The  Vital  Spark  still  Waits  the  day. 

The  ruggedness  of  ancient  mold 
Was  hidden  then  by  softer  dreams ; 

The  braver  line  we  used  to  hold 

May  waver  where  the  red  flash  gleams; 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  195 

But  when  the  showdown  came  at  last 
Beyond  control  of  word  or  pen, 

Remembrance  of  a  braver  past 
Came  back  to  wake  us  up  again. 

The  ancient  spirit  of  the  clan 

May  shrink,  at  times,  before  the  call, 
Bewildered,  in  the  waiting  span, 

Before  the  rousing  lash  shall  fall ; 
But  when  the  light  flares  down  the  field 

Beyond  doubt's  final  barricade, 
The  rust  shall  come  from  off  the  shield — 

The  dust  shall  flutter  from  the  blade. 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  DRUMS 
What  is  the  story  of  glory  that  comes 
From  the  roll  of  the  drums? 
The  echo  of  feet  keeping  time  to  the  beat 
Of   men   who  are  marching  by  crossroad  and 
street 


196  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

To  the  call  that  has  echoed  by  land  and  by  sea 

For  the  fate  that  may  be? 

And  the  story  is  this — they  have  come  to  the 

day 
When  the  big  debt  is  due  in  the  smash  of  the 

fray 

And  if  it  be  only  the  death  which  they  owe, 
Or  if  it  be  only  to  suffer  and  grow, 
They  are  ready  to  pay. 

Even  for  those  who  are  ready  and  strong 
The  road's  none  too  long ; 
Time  moves  on  the  fly  as  the  seasons  flash  by 
Where  the  shadows  drift  in  and  the  last  echoes 

die, 
Where  each  in  his  turn  passes  on  through  the 

gate 

To  whatever  may  wait ; 

And  the  story  is  this — when  the  hour  is  due — 
And  it  may   be  for  me  or  it  may  be  for  you — 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  197 

Today  and  Tomorrow  are  one  and  the  same 
If  we   stick  to  the  highway  and  play  out  the 

game, 
Be  it  early  or  late. 

OVER  THE  BORDER 

(Johnny  Poe — Killed  in  'Action — September  25, 
1915.) 

Out  from  the  darkness  we  come  to  the  light — 
A   dream    in   the    sunlight — a   breath   in   the 

clover — 
And   then — comes   the    call   to   the   Tavern   of 

Night 
Where  the  bugle  is  hushed  and  the  war  note 

is  over; 
The  roll  call  is  heard  where  the  Troopers  stand 

by- 

And  tears  for  the  Silence  where  none  may 
reply. 


19$  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

Over  the  Border — dim,  starless  and  far, 

But  where  a  brave  dream  and  a  spirit  un 
broken 
May  sweep  through  the  dusk  by  the  last  crimson 

star 
And  come  to  God's  dawn  for  the  last  laurel 

token ; 

Over  the  Border — with  Right's  stalwart  creed 
And  the  clan  of  his  comrades  to  give  him 
Godspeed. 

Green  be  his  couch  where  the  white  lilies  lean ; 
Crimson  the  roses  that  keep  guard  above  him ; 
Gentle  the  darkness  that  gathers  between 
The  Sleeper  at  rest  and  the  torn  hearts  that 

love  him; 

God  give  him  refuge  where  Life's  flag  is  furled — 
A    Dreamer   gone   back   to   the    dust    of    the 
World. 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  199 

Low  be   the   lost  winds   of   France   that  must 

creep 

Over  his  rest  in  the  Last  Tavern  lying ; 
God,  send  Thy  dreams  where  the   Darkness  is 

deep — 
Father,   Thy  care  when  the  wild  storms  are 

flying ; 

No  monarch  comes — but  the  Soul  of  a  Man — 
We    speak    for    a    Brother — for  One  of  the 
Clan ! 

TWO  SONGS  OF  THE  FIELD 

The  wind  is  hushed — but  the  guns  are  singing 
"Over  the  top  !     On  down  the  field ! 

On  with  the  flags !     Where  life  is  bringing 
The   thrill   that   comes   from   the   sword   and 
shield ! 

Over  the  top !    And  on  to  the  charge  ! 
On  and  on  through  the  red  barrage! 


200  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART' 

We've  cleared  the  road — that  is  red  and  wet — 
We've  opened  the  way  for  the  bayonet! 

We've  sowed  to  the  wind — now  reap  the  crop! 
Over  the  top,  now !    Over  the  top  !" 

The  guns  are  hushed — but  the  winds  are  singing 

"Sleep  forever!     On  down  the  field. 
On  with  your  dreams,  where  death  is  bringing 

The  peace  that  follows  the  sword  and  shield. 
Under  the  top  of  the  crust  that  knew 

The  thud   of  your   feet   when   the   guns   got 

through ; 
The  charge  is  over — the  fight  is  done 

Where  silence  sits  on  the  smoking  gun. 
Where  silence  sits — and  the  shadows  creep 

And  the  song  of  the  guns  can't  break  your 
sleep." 


"HOME  FROM  THE  FRONT" 

He  has  come  back  home,  asleep; 

And  it  cannot  be  except 
Those  who  love  him  most  must  weep 

As  the  world  has  ever  wept 
When  her  sons  were  forced  to  go, 

Yet,  where  twilight's  shadows  creep, 
It  is  something  just  to  know 

He  has  come  back  home,  asleep. 

Something  just  to  know  but  this — 

Where  so  many  come  no  more — 
Feel  no  more  the  southwind's  kiss, 

Lost  upon  a  distant  shore ; 
Where  so  many  seek  the  track 

Leading  home,  but  through  dim  tears, 
Or  some  day  but  wander  back 

To  the  heartache  of  the  years. 

201 


202  SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART 

He  has  come  back  home,  asleep — 

Yet,  within  his  resting  place, 
From  the  outer  darkness  deep 

Love's  pale  lilies  hide  his  face ; 
And  beneath  blue  summer  skies 

Where  he  dreams  below  the  sod 
But  a  single  rosebud  lies 

Now  "between  his  heart  and  God." 

From  the  day-gleam  to  the  night 

He  has  passed,  and  yet  afar 
He  has  found  a  greater  light 

Than  we  know  from  sun  or  star — 
He  has  found  a  rarer  gleam 

Where  no  weary  tears  may  blur — 
He  will  know  a  sweeter  dream 

Where  the  wind-blown  grasses  stir. 

Where  the  red  tide  whirls  and  runs 
He  is  safe  now  from  the  foe, 


SONGS    OF    THE    STALWART  2O3 

Where  the  thunder  of  the  guns 

Is  as  soft  as  falling  snow; 
And  beneath  blue  guarding  skies 

Where  he  dreams  below  the  sod, 
But  a  single  rosebud  lies 

Now  "between  his  heart  and  God." 


(i) 


JON 


5933 


HB.  KKf  i  ?  js7g 


1 


5 1969  21 

RECEIVED 

AUG5    '69^3PM 


y  UN  1 3 19179 


^  21-50w-l,'3,< 


371636 


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